Beyond the Pale
by DestinyShiva
Summary: Rushing through the streets of London, Arthur tries to leave the horrific argument he had with America/Alfred behind; though danger takes an ominous form. Soon Arthur's blood is spilled and England can only remember one name... Alfred.
1. Blood Red Moon, Eat Away the Night

**Beyond the Pale**

**Chapter 1: 'Blood Red Moon - Eat Away the Night'**

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The rain cascaded heavily from the heavens above. Not a single building in the city could be seen in the distance through the thick droplets colliding with the ground after scarcely seconds of existence in their suicidal plummets, and even the pathway barely two feet in front were clouded by a dense shroud of fog, changing even familiar territory beyond rational recognition.

Yet, through the inhospitable rain that erupted chaotically from the skies as freely as tragedy's miserable tears and through the fog that shadowed even the best of eyesight to mere uncongenial remnants; a single man travelled through the darkness, footsteps patting violently on the concrete ground at excelled pace, rushing across the streets without even having a purpose for each of his quickening steps.

His breath scattered from his lungs harshly as he ran, his body becoming tortured far beyond the man's limit; however the man ignored the desperate need for oxygen and rest against strain, continuing to run despite every fibre of his body screaming in pain. And of all, the most violently tortured was his exasperated heart; disheartened, ruined, and forlorn, all alone in his chest.

The man held his head down, his hair was soaked from the moisture and each dirty blond strand oozed drops of water down his forehead and cheeks, congealing with and disguising the salty tears that flooded profusely from his emerald green eyes. His cheeks were flushed with scarlet, and those enticing green eyes were raw as those tears, rain, and the rushing air slashed against him. The green military uniform that he wore was burdened with thick floods of the water; the fabric clung to his chest stubbornly.

He was alone… a stranger in his own lands, determined to run until he no longer recognised the world that surrounded him. His own conscience betrayed him for the last time. He had to run; run until he could ultimately leave the world he once thought he knew, and retreat to another place – free from his current worries and burdens indefinitely.

But there was no where to run and hide, at least… not for someone like him, someone who's face would be recognised all across the world.

It would be better, as his mind repeated with blasphemy again and again throughout the night without mercy, if he disappeared – once and for all, never to be seen again. Only then could his conscience be free, and he would no longer have to endure their abhorrence. The steps the man took did not slow even slightly as the rain got even harder; each droplet of rain pierced him like bullets and clung as everlasting reminders of his fright to his clothes.

None of them would have to suffer anymore.

It was better if he never existed.

Finally the man spotted a figure in front of him through his sore soaked eyes and the thick body of the mist; as his eyes widened in shock, the man stumbled, desperately trying to slow his movements before he crashed into the figure, but instead ended up tripping over his own feet while his body continued to rush forwards – falling to the ground with a chaotic thud at the figure's feet, smacking his head against the concrete extremely hard, his conscience and sight blacking out for an indefinite time.

It was impossible to predict how long his fall had knocked him out for, but all he knew after his eyes flickered open again was that he was now sitting perched against a black lamppost. His eyes continued to hurt severely, and the dizzying fall had not done any good for his eyesight in the gloomy weather… yet he could spot a large speck of blood scraped and spattered on the pavement a pace or so in front of him even so. The blood congealed with the water and created a long line falling off of the pavement and running as a scarlet waterfall into a street drain – a blood red river.

The man glanced at his own hands, exasperated and confused from the hectic fall still. His gloved fingertips were covered with more blood. A throbbing pain from his head revealed the reason why, and a quick touch confirmed his suspicions; his hand came down even more blood soaked than before.

With his eyes still blurred and head splitting apart in agony, the man raised his head for a mere second and desperately tried to find any indication of another life nearby through the rain and the fog; yet it was obvious that not a single soul was anywhere near him, let alone the shape that had appeared before his eyes past the overcast mist. His view lingered momentarily over the exact spot where he had saw the other person, searching for a sign that confirmed the figure's existence but found none other than the huge scrape mark from where the ground had caught his fall. His blood stained in the ground was still fresh.

Who had moved him, if he was all alone and had woken up only a minute or so after he passed out?

It made no sense.

Did he move his self… and forget about it? That was ludicrous.

As he tried to deliberate, a bursting headache intoxicated his entire mind. He pressed his hand against his head again to try stopping the bleeding, but the added pressure only brought more agony and the flow hardly slowed at all. His headache increased flooding his thoughts so fluently that he had completely lost most of his rational thought. All he could muster was that it made no sense at all…

He could have sworn that he saw America, Alfred… when he was barely even ten years old.

Why did he have to see an apparition like that? Why that git of all people? Why was he ten years old or so? Was his mind playing tricks on him through the exhaustion, or was he just subconsciously thinking along those lines… to the past where they were once happily together, just like brothers?

The man - Arthur… Igirisu… England or whatever people wished to call him these days - cursed his mind for conjuring the most painful of memories in front of him at such an inappropriate time as that. He didn't need it. He didn't need it for a second. Arthur cradled his head within his brown leather gloved hands, becoming more and more faint by each fleeting moment.

Why on earth couldn't he rid his self of thoughts like that? The times when he was acting with Alfred as his guardian were long gone; so why did he feel so sick whenever he thought about it again? It was unbelievable how far he had let his self fall. They were so friendly back then… when the hell did that stop?

Now, he merely was the pawn that Alfred used to help him win fights that he couldn't really care less about – nothing more. Alfred was 'the hero'. America this, America that. With a twinge of both jealously and lonesome feelings, Arthur sighed to himself. He had no passion whatsoever anymore –what happened to the great British Empire? What happened to his days as a hooligan, a pirate feared all across the many oceans and seas of the world?

Why was he thinking about all this now? He must have hit his head hard, or so England told himself. Was it really all about his loss of glory… or was it something else?

He was asking his self too many questions that he couldn't handle, not when he was practically fainting from blood loss and exhaustion… and was beginning to question his sanity. He hadn't seen Alfred smiling so innocently like that since before they had that gigantic argument and eventually the war that split the nations of America and England in two indefinitely. It was horrible, knowing that his mind would spurt out something – a memory of Alfred – that was so innocent. It was torture of the highest degree… especially after what had happened that day.

It was pathetic knowing that he couldn't do anything to stop Alfred walking along paths that he didn't belong to; if only he could have kept Alfred like the absolutely invincible gentleman that he was… they would never have fought so badly. Arthur wiped away the tears that continued to run down his face in unison with the falling rain. If only he could have been a better brother or friend… maybe then Alfred would realise all the effort that he put into raising him.

He had saved him from that bastard France. And this, this was how he repaid him? Leaving him totally heartbroken for centuries? How could he not feel this way when it came to this time of year? What did Alfred expect? Did he think that he'd just shrug off the past like nothing and say congratulations so willingly? No way. He was a gentleman… not a bloody hypocrite. He hated July. Independence, indesmendance.

"…You git, Alfred… happy f*cking birthday."

Arthur found his normal thoughts harder and harder to understand; the rash quantity of names flooding into his mind confused him greatly… and the man became particularly distressed as he realised he couldn't remember exactly which face linked with what name. The only one that had accurately been engraved in his mind was Alfred, and the image in his mind's eye was becoming blurrier and less accurate by the second. Did he hit his head so hard that he was severely disorientated?

After a few more seconds of wait by the side of the road, waiting desperately for some kind of help…someone… anyone… or at least the strength to lurch his self back to life and escort his exasperated body home, Arthur felt a bizarre ill frost clasping at his skin; an estranged chill fell down his spine and numbed the very tips of his fingers came coupled with a sudden violent sense of nausea. Where did he live anyway? Number 42 or 43…? What road?

Arthur blinked, holding his bloodied hand suspended between the ground and his eyes, finding it impossible to ignore the quick succession of goose bumps that gripped heavily on his arms. Why couldn't he remember why he was running in the first place? He had an argument with Alfred, he knew that much, and it was about the fourth of july… those distressful thoughts were far too painful to lose; but yet all the details he thought he should remember, silly trivia like where he lived and who he got that disgusting smelly cheese that was in the kitchen from, were completely missing from his mind.

Arthur scoffed. Whenever he tried to force his memory into overdrive, his head felt like it was splitting straight into two. It was ludicrous… far too ludicrous. Who loses their memory from falling on the pavement? Granted, he was running at full bloody speed (why was that again? He was a gentleman, wasn't he? Gentlemen don't run at full speed through the streets of… wait… his capital's name was what again? Landom? Londam?) and he had practically thrown his self at the floor while trying to avoid the stupid apparition… but it would only be temporary, right?

Well… maybe it was possible when he thought of it like that. It was a miracle that he didn't crack a gigantic hole in his skull. He scoffed at one thought that crossed his mind… he remembered that there was a prat… France was the nation… who was a complete total molesting git. Totally ignoring his surroundings, Arthur found himself laughing quietly and sinisterly before it developed into proper belting laughter.

_Why the hell am I laughing? There's nothing to laugh about… I can't bloody move and I don't remember who his France person is…! What the hell is wrong with me? …Someone… what… the hell is wrong with me? Alfred? Why did we fight? Where the bloody hell am I?_

The laughter quickly ended with a long drawn out sigh for closure. Arthur's emotions were certainly going through a bizarre turn, held in emotions from years and years seemed to want to burst out in one quick explosion. Within seconds Arthur was shaking desperately and more tears continued down his cheeks. His body by now, as the blood continued to erupt from his head, had become limp and utterly lifeless.

His eyes burned raw with excruciating pain, but he could not for the life of him close his eyes or move them from the spot they focused upon. With page white skin, blood running out from his veins, and his body lifeless except the small breath he only just could muster; he looked just like a corpse, or a broken marionette missing its strings. How much blood he had lost completely eluded him. Everything was painful. Everything was utterly and unforgivably hopeless.

* * *

"So like, he totally flipped – and I, like, can't blame him. I mean America was being SO unreasonable; I know it's his birthday and everything, but England organised like…EVERYTHING for him. He was totally ungrateful, yanno? I'm not saying that England was all great with how he reacted and everything, but seriously… I'd so love a birthday party that I don't have to worry about, ne Lithuania?"

Poland, or Feliks, practically skipped through the streets of London and ignoring the rain that was quickly fading with the heavy layer of ash coloured cloud, striving gladly in the one sided joys that gossip granted. Feliks turned to his best friend Lithuania/Toris to try interpreting his reaction to his words... however a less than bemused expression kept on Toris's face – an obvious worry and stress gripped him.

"Yeah… Me too. I tried to hint about something like that last year to Estonia, Latvia, and Russia… but I don't think they paid any attention to it at all. I really don't know Estonia and Latvia that well and R-Russia wasn't exactly good either. After everything, I ended up forced to visit Germany with Russia… I think he booked the train tickets on my birthday on purpose. He didn't take Estonia or Latvia either! Why me…? I'm lucky he let me go back with you instead of him…"

"You're like, Russia's bitch." As Toris sighed heartily to his self from his hopeless situation, Feliks snuck in a line that he had thought through his mind constantly since their separation by the Russian's hand. Toris's expression became far less than impressed.

"Don't say that Poland! Ah… w-what is that?" Toris's eyes finally tore away from his best friend and fell onto the scene in front of them; the massacre of fog and the waterfall of red were less than formidable. The street looked more like a place of violent murder than a mere scene of an accident. Scarlet decorated the streets of London. Toris stirred, becoming immediately frozen by the dread. Bloodshed was something he was used to in the battlefield, but the backstreets of London was something else.

He knew that crime in the recent times in London was increasing, but he never bartered that he would see anything. Toris shot Feliks a deathly scared look as Feliks jumped forwards to get a better look; more gossip and another event to fuel an already fulfilled mind.

"Woah! Looks like there's a whole load of like, blood or something! Was there a fight? Looks totally nasty…"

"Oh god… there's someone there still! Wait a second…Is… Is that…? E-England?" Toris finally caught a sight of the bloodied body that waited against the lamppost at the side of the road, the massacre's river of blood that covered the pavement side finally showed its source in the form of a seriously nasty crack at the side of Arthur's skull. If the split was no so prominent, then the thought that he was shot would be an accurate conclusion from afar; blood drained from the still open gash, slower now, creating a spanning web that looked just like the effects of a gunshot wound.

Toris wondered very seriously whether or not they should go over, or run away and forget it ever happened. He knew better than to meddle in the affairs of the United Kingdom – but it was almost impossible to ignore the threat of death. If they didn't help him, who would? Toris shivered and found his feet edging away ever so slowly, his stomach bitten with both guilt and fear. Feliks noticed the slow advancement away from the scene, and grabbed Toris's arm, flashing a half-smile half-worried frown combination and then guiding (dragging) Toris to the practical crime scene with him.

"No way…! He looks kinda like he's dead – his eyes are open and everything. Can he see us?" Feliks mused, narrowing his eyes to try see better than before – surprisingly unafraid of the spattered blood and even more so the nation that helped cause an uproar in Alfred's birthday celebration along with the latter.

Toris just couldn't understand why Feliks was so unconcerned with meddling with whatever happened, especially as England was particularly cranky that day ever since Alfred started complaining. Toris murmured under Feliks's stubborn dominance when he confirmed Toris's suspicions that Arthur's eyes were still open – if he did indeed run away and Arthur somehow survived, then it was likely he may have gotten in some trouble.

Though those fears were eradicated when he noticed how faded and distant Arthur's eyes seemed; they did not move for a single millisecond to note their arrival… they only prayed constantly and obsessively on a spot just above the 'touchdown point' – and then another fear cropped up, prompted by Feliks's words.

Was he... dead? A corpse? He certainly looked like it. Toris's nervous shivers built up further, prompting a quizzical look from Feliks before the latter abandoned Toris's arm and bent down over Arthur's body.

Feliks examined Arthur's chest with a high degree of curiosity, feeling particular glad as he saw the nation's rib cage move underneath the clothes sodden with red and water in harmful unison, and exhaled a breath of relief. "He's still breathing".

"You're serious? How could anyone be alive and look so dead like that?" Toris lingered behind Feliks, careful not to stand any where the scarlet river flowed and also not to look at the nation he believed until that moment to be deceased. Toris inhaled deeply to attempt to settle his nerves; a considerable task right at then, fears building when confronted with death.

Why did they have to leave so early? Someone else might have found him instead. Though then it would be too late.

As much as he personally didn't care much for Arthur, considering they only had quite bad experiences together, he didn't want the man to die. He knew very well that Alfred would probably feel bad about it, like it was his fault… he knew Alfred enough to know that the outside exterior of absolutely no concern was so much more of a façade then most people understood. As much as it frightened him, he couldn't let Alfred feel burdened for an incident that he couldn't control.

Or could he? If he and Arthur hadn't argued, Arthur wouldn't have run off… Toris shook his head in attempts to remove the shameful thought. He wasn't going to place the blame on anyone. Feliks jumped him back into reality.

"I totally don't know, but we've gotta help him – right?"

"Y-yeah. I'll call an ambulance… what if they don't come in time though?" Toris looked at Arthur out of the corner of his eye, the wound was more or less clean – cleansed by the rain – and the flow was finally beginning to completely stop; but the amount of red surrounding them and spilling a pollution of metallic musty vapour into the air was extortionate. Even if he survived, he would have to have a blood transfusion – and quickly at that. Toris reached into his pocket and groped around for his phone.

"If you call them now rather than deliberating about it for like, ages, then you'll be giving him more of a chance, you know. So get to it." Feliks continued to stare at Arthur for any signs of life or evidence to what had happened. The true conclusion that he fell catastrophically badly seemed to be the only thing that made sense by the angle of the blow and the particularly big patch of maroon that the disappearing rain refused to completely wash off. He shook Arthur lightly to try provoking a reaction, though to no real avail.

"…You're right… it's 999 in this country, isn't it?"

Toris stepped a few feet away, away from Feliks's attempts at having some vague medicinal knowledge and then pressed the phone to his ear; the country expressed a particular distaste in the form of a heavy sigh as the person on the other side spoke with a particularly heavy Scottish accent that he couldn't understand very well at all.

After fumbling with his words (his nervosa made speaking English particularly hard, and his own accent didn't help the Scot to his work either), Toris finally managed to persuade the Scot to send an ambulance in their direction after resorting to a succession of "Y-Yes. A…Ambulance, emergency…erm…some street somewhere in London. Feliks, what street is it? Uhm, hold on... What, list them? Oh wait, yes, that was the one – no not that one… the one before that." and a considerable amount of patience on both sides.

"Is it possible to make sure that the hospital has a bed? He probably has private healthcare… he has complained about the NHS before… What? What do you mean by 'no authority'? I'm not an illegal immigrant or anything; don't judge me on my accent! Yes, I'm European… I'm Lithuania for crying out loud! …What? Oh, yes, thank you."

"That sounded kinda chronic" As Feliks sniggered at Toris's difficult much to his dismay. Toris repeated his sigh and inserted his phone back into his pocket.

"Even those in the emergency services are just as severe as England… and as soon as I said I was Lithuania, he stopped being so disagreeable and went straight to sorting out the details. I guess you've got to be a celebrity or something before people here can take you seriously. He must have really bad problems with immigrants right now, by the sounds of it. But anyway, the ambulance is on its way. Ah – sorry. How's he doing?"

"I haven't gotten a word out of him. He's totally awake, but I don't think he's registering us being here at all. Or maybe he's like those people who can sleep with their eyes open… this so is like, creepy! Wait! They moved!"

"England? England can you see or hear us? Any answer is fine!"

Arthur blinked, his eyes hurt almost more than the splitting headache that gripped his body and filled him with weakness. Finally he registered the existence of two of his fellow European nations, though the sight shocked him more than gave him any comfort. Although somebody had come finally and it was not too late for him to survive, the outlines of their faces he did not recognise at all. Arthur peered up to the two unfamiliar people with quizzicality; despite the weakness that engrossed his freezing unresponsive vessel. Not a single feature or memory flooded his mind with reminiscence.

They were nothing more than strangers.

Arthur glanced quickly at both of them before tearing his eyes away and returning them to the ground, a frustration building in his mind that throbbed more profusely than the pain.

"…W…Who are you?"

"What?" Toris practically shouted in surprise.

"Don't worry Lithuania… he's probably concussed or something. England… it's Poland and Lithuania. What happened here, do you remember like, anything?"

Arthur turned his head away and looked down the street, as if trying to piece together with his own internal instinct what had happened – his emerald green eyes glanced from the beginning of the street to the spot in front of them, as if following the transparent figure of his own ghost of the past. Feliks glared at the street as well, as if expecting to spot someone or something there but obviously found nothing but air suspended in the dark and quite polluted atmosphere.

As Feliks felt movement besides him, he returned his glance. Arthur was trying desperately to get his self up and escape from their grasp. His body was shaking so severely, devoid of any strength at all, that Feliks thought he would just collapse down again – though surprisingly through sheer will power Arthur managed to drag himself to his feet.

"W-w-wait a minute England! We've got an ambulance coming! You're going to hurt yourself!" Toris shouted out, desperate to stop the unstable nation from causing even more damage to himself.

"Shut up! I don't need any help! Not from any strangers like you!" Arthur tried to swipe Toris away with his bloodied glove but ended up fumbling his footsteps and almost causing a second incident before thankfully somehow regaining his composure. Cold sweat drops ran down Arthur's forehead and cheek, the feeling of panic gathering frantically. His face reflected the sheer dread that all three of them were facing in the night's starlit light of the event unfolding before them.

"We're not strangers! England, what is wrong with you?" Toris continued to plead to the older nation, his voice becoming far more frantic and desperate than before – the true circumstances completely dawning in his mind; Arthur had indeed forgotten their faces, and despite Feliks's calls stating the missing part of his memory as the pure effects of being concussed, Toris couldn't bring himself to think along the same lines.

What if Arthur never realised who they were? What on earth would something like that do to the world?

It was a complete disaster – and no body except them at that moment knew about it. Toris's trail of thought flooded again to Alfred, his mind's eye imagining the wonderment pasted on his less than bemused face at the news that his older brother figure, friend almost before their argument… the shock and disappointment that Alfred may gain and the grievance kept in the confinements of his body worried Toris drastically.

He could already imagine Alfred finding out and saying in his typical brave heroic voice 'Ah? England had an accident? Oh well, that sucks. Now, back to business!' while dying inside.

Toris looked back to the trembling United Kingdom, his own body crippled by wandering negative thoughts. Arthur's face had gone tremendously white, and his green eyes had faded back into whatever abyss kept them once again – just as he did when he was practically collapsed and couldn't move whatsoever. A sudden pang of nerves struck violently at Toris's heart as he realised that Arthur was more than likely to completely faint. Before he could run to the nation's side and catch his fall, Feliks had already left his place by the lamp post and caught Arthur by his shoulder.

With their combined effort, Toris and Feliks helped bring Arthur back to his knees; just as the sirens of the ambulance called out their deathly knells in the distance. Arthur's body continued to shudder radically, all of his limbs befalling flaccid and weak in their grasp. His wet hair cascaded over his eyes, a sinister yet unfortunate atmosphere radiating from the man bowing his head limply in shame. A few transparent tears fell to the ground and mixed with the congealed blood and rain water plucked from the skies.

Toris bit his lip, hard. He had never seen Arthur cry before. Feliks returned Toris's look of apparent shock, though a light tug against his clothes made his head turn back to the injured nation again. The ambulance finally pulled up on the street.

"…P…Please… don't tell… Alfred… Whatever happens… don't tell a man called… Alfred…"

Finally, Arthur fell fully forwards against the two other European nations; his eyes at last seeing the darkness that he craved – the murky abyss of nothingness enthralling him entirely. Feliks and Toris exchanged the same dreaded look once more.

What on earth could they do?

Arthur's subconscious wish had been granted in such a way that it caused the exact opposite effect to what he stubbornly desired. Instead of his consciousness being torn away from the world permanently, being forgotten forevermore by those who knew him; none of which he could really call his friends… he had left the faces of his less than beloved ones behind while he persisted to exist. Only one name echoed desperately through what remained of his mind. Alfred.

And no matter what, he knew he couldn't bring any more pain to that one person anymore… whoever they were. All Arthur knew was that they singularly were the most important person to him, full stop. He knew that the gaping hole ripped in his heart belonged to him. He couldn't see them like this. He wouldn't be able to control the complaints of his barely beating heart.


	2. Be Careful of what you wish for

Alrighty! Chapter two has arisen!

Well, this chapter features from Lithuania's point of view after the accident has happened. Originally I intended this to include a very fun scene with France and England both… but 1. I ran out of time, since I promised this would be posted today *sweatdrop*, and 2. I quite like the mini-cliff hanger I left at the end.

That scene will be extended and added to the third chapter; because I have quite a few funny plans for it 8D.

By the way, the chapter names are based on lines from Sonata Arctica songs… I have no idea why, but I think it's just a nice little tribute to my favourite band 8D.

**Chapter Two – Be careful of what you wish for…**

Toris absorbed a hefty supply of air in a huge inhaling yawn, his eyelids practically dropping off and eyes stinging from strain as he tried quite desperately to cling onto waking consciousness – though almost entirely against his will. There was something overly eerie about Hospitals that made him feel violently uneasy as he lingered in the waiting room. He didn't know whether it was the fear of dangerous illnesses living in the air, the fear of the ghosts of dead patients trailing through the halls and shouting a vengeful wailing and cursing the souls of the healthy or recovering, or something else that unsettled him (probably because the only times he was in hospital were after Belarus had hugged him a little bit too tight…), but his nerves had not calmed down a single bit since they had arrived at the hospital on the back of the ambulance. Although the Scottish attendant on the other side of his phone conversation (or argument more like) earlier practically promised good treatment for them when they got to the hospital, the reality was nothing less than frightening. For one, in the ambulance, there were so many people shouting at him to get out of their way, and they had to actually ask to be taken to the hospital with Arthur… it looked like they automatically assumed that Arthur didn't know them, purely because he and Feliks were foreign… England was a far less generous country than he ever first assumed…

Secondly, while Arthur was taken to a doctor somewhere in the Accident and Emergency section of the hospital, he and Feliks were randomly dumped in one of the hospital waiting rooms and told to wait until further notice. The waiting room was… simply disgusting to say the very least; the seats were violently uncomfortable, all plastic of a frankly not amusing ominous blood red colour, and all exactly the wrong shape from the top of your spine all the way to the bottom… as if designed specifically to cause as much physical discomfort as absolutely possible. The room was also severely cramped together – four rows of the horrible plastic chairs, each row with chairs back to back and consisting of five linked together - and it was crammed full of people. In the whole place, only two seats were not filled with people, and another four people were standing up and looking very annoyed and bothered over in the corners nearest the door.

Toris glanced down at the vacant seat to his right. Why didn't they just sit down next to him, especially when they were pulling those irritable faces and complaining about there being nowhere to sit? It wasn't as if he was ill or anything, unlike a lot of the other people sitting in wait for a doctor to assist them of their meaningless problems. Not that Toris particularly wanted any of them to sit next to him. During the time they were there, a rather… pompous… old sweaty man had decided to take the seat next to him – squeezing him in between Feliks and the man that he swore had not worn deodorant once since he was born. Toris shuddered at the thought. At least the old man had departed, though Toris couldn't help be bothered by the fact that the old man came after they arrived and got called out before them.

When the hell was "Further notice" supposed to be anyway? They'd been waiting for over four hours, and not a single thing has happened. Perhaps they had forgotten that they were there? He wouldn't have doubted it… the receptionist didn't seem to even look up at him when he last tried to enquire why it was taking so long and told him to just go sit back down. It was unbearable how pathetic the service was; even the rest of the people in the waiting room were acting just as edgy as he. He would have gone to enquire again, hopefully releasing some of his pent up nerves with conversation – even if it was heated with his personal irritation… if Feliks had not slumped down on his shoulder and fallen fast asleep. How could he sleep in such an unwelcoming place? Sure, they had both taken planes from their own countries which is a hassling process for anyone and had therefore been awake for over twenty four hours… but sleeping in a hotel or on the plane back home was something completely different! How could Feliks sleep at all when he knew that he was more worried about Arthur than he? At least Arthur and Feliks had dealt with each other before a little bit in the past… Toris pulled another exasperated expression, and tried badly to shuffle Feliks off of him without waking him.

"…U-Uhm… a Mister… Felix, no… Feliks Lukasie… wicks? Oh, and a Mister Toris Lori…naitis. Are you here?" A very young and surprisingly nervous nurse stepped into the room, holding a clipboard and trying drastically to read the confusing foreign names that were written on her piece of paper. Toris looked up, noticing the very pretty appearance of the young woman, and almost made Feliks's head fall and smack on the now vacant chair when he stood up too fast to the woman's call. Luckily Toris nudged Feliks enough in his ascent to wake the dozy Pole before he hit his head and got angry – Feliks murmured slightly, quickly realising that Toris had gotten up and immediately followed suit as he rubbed his darkish green eyes. Toris sighed. The woman was very pretty indeed, though of course his heart belonged entirely to his beautiful (and psychotic) Belarus, or Natalia… despite the sheer agony of crunching bones he has to put up with whenever he is anywhere near her and she gets overexcited…

"We're here…"

"Ah! Would you mind coming with me please?" The woman gave them the first look in the eyes that they had received ever since they initially arrived in the hospital. At least there were _some_ people in England that seemed to harbour some sort of compassion. Feliks continued to stay close to him, becoming extraordinarily wary as they had to push past all the many people who sat with their legs folded and sticking almost intentionally in front of the pathway out; using Toris as a practical human shield and following very quickly in the shadows of his footsteps. As much as he disapproved of Feliks using him as defence and shoving him into the legs of the rather irritable English folks, he had no reason to bat him away or speak out. Feliks was, after all, the only familiarity and comfort he had in the whole hospital. Toris looked back, realising that as soon as they had gotten up – several of the shady lurking people had literally leapt into the vacant spaces, while those who remained jammed to their sits watched disapprovingly. He had never quite realised how selfish and competitive English people could be when they were worried about themselves, their loved ones, or stressed by the less than calming atmosphere – until now. Toris swore he felt the cooling chill of a nervous sweat drop fell from his forehead as the young nurse escorted Feliks and him outside the overly busy waiting room.

"I'm sorry for the delay... we're seriously busy today. All three of our waiting rooms are completely full, sorry that you had to stay in such a condensed room as well. Now… I just need to confirm… you two are friends of , correct?"

"Totally don't worry about it! The waiting room was like, not bad at all. And yeah, we are!" Feliks practically sung as he appeared from huddling behind Toris as they had escaped. Toris gave Feliks a questionable look. For someone who was usually extremely shy with new people, Feliks was sure acting pretty upbeat. Though maybe the pole was just acting normally, and he was just so tired that he couldn't take notice of what was going on around him with relative accuracy?

"That's good, and sorry if I pronounced your names wrong… It's hard to say European names, please forgive me. Now – I'd like to inform you that Mr. Kirkland has been all stitched up, and has had a blood transfusion to keep him stable. He's already been removed from intensive care and is in a private ward at the moment. According to the doctor that sorted him out, he's woken up… which considering his welfare at the moment is surprising – so you may go visit him if you wish. Oh! And… are you aware of the… uhm…circumstances?"

"That he's got Amnesia? …Yes, we're aware."

"Ah, at least that's something I don't have to explain in detail. Well, I think you'll be pleased to know that it seems likely that the effects will not be absolutely permanent – he knows his name and it doesn't look like normal human behaviour has been hampered. He however doesn't remember anything like where he lives, or how he hurt himself… and it says here that they tried asking him the names of his family and friends, but he cannot remember any of them. Although… apparently he does remember the name 'Alfred'. Does this name mean anything to you?"

"Yeah, we were all totally at his birthday party, before they both had, like, an argument and Arthur went running off!" Toris gave Feliks another pondering look, trying to determine whether it was just because he was so tired from not getting a single bit of sleep for hours and hours and hours on end that was deluding his thought, or whether it really was his fellow nation that was being a little too hyperactive – considering that they had just witnessed a stronger nation than them fall to pieces.

"Ah! So that explains it!"

"Excuse me?" Sighed Toris; interrupting Feliks from speaking and saving himself from having to wonder why both Feliks and the young nurse seemed to be far more upbeat than he could hope to manage in… what? Two in the morning? He just couldn't understand it at all. They were in the worst of places and least pleasurable of conversations. Could Feliks not be serious for once? They were in hospital… for something pretty serious for goodness sake! Once again, he had no will to complain.

"When people are severely upset, it would make sense that one would like to forget – wouldn't it? It's purely speculation, but I think depression is a very large factor in Amnesia… especially for a case like Arthur's. Did you know whether this Alfred person was very important to Mr. Kirkland?"

A sudden thought occurred to him as he accidentally absorbed the young nurse's words in what he was certain was definitely the wrong way. Arthur was never one to talk about his feelings; he was private to the highest degree. An absolute, invincible, British gentleman you could have said. He never let anyone else know what he was thinking, and in a way that was gentlemanly – not bothering others with things that disturbed him alone, keeping to his self out of courtesy. Sure, it was possible that he was keeping a lot of things to himself and he inevitably hit the very barrier of his limits. It didn't help that his American ally was the one to take the blunt of the blow. Toris knew very well that there was a history there that was very painful – while Alfred spoke of independence in a high light, he had always observed Arthur's deterrence when it came to that subject. They were always brothers at heart back then - so why were they so secretly hostile now when it seems that they had finally left the past behind? Alfred never seemed to have a problem.

So was it just Arthur who was biased towards Alfred? Since Lithuania and England had not had much interest in each other in the past, Toris couldn't judge at all. Perhaps, they really were strangers. But… depression? Severely upset? Was this really Arthur she was speaking of? He always was a quite self-righteous person, conjuring some confidence from nowhere… all because his ethnics were determined on the thought of being civil at all times. England's relationship with America couldn't have been this important to Arthur's mind… could it?

"…Ah…Uh, I wouldn't know something like that. I don't really know Arthur well."

"Oh I'm sorry. Is there any way to bring Alfred down here? If Mr. Kirkland remembers his name, then maybe seeing Alfred will help him a little?"

"No! Ah, I-er mean… since it was his birthday toda-No, yesterday by now – he's still probably out having a good time. It'll be unreasonable to interrupt, wouldn't it? I've called one of Arthur's other friends anyway… they should be here soon. So I think we'll be alright. Thank you." Toris's felt his face completely brighten up with a rather severe embarrassed blush. He was not sure whether the nurse knew just how heated Arthur and Alfred's argument was… but regardless, it was obvious that inviting Alfred down right at that time would be a violently bad idea. What on earth would they tell him?! 'Oh, hi America… England has bashed out his brains somehow, probably by tripping over, and how he doesn't remember who anyone is - except he remembers your name, isn't that weird? Would you like to come to the most terrifying hospital in the world, ignoring your huge argument with each other, and try to bring the Brit back some sense by explaining to him what a hamburger is? Thanks!' It was ridiculous… he'd just hang up straight away.

Although, finding someone else to tell was also hard. It never really occurred to him before but, did Arthur really have any good friends? Alfred was practically the furthest reach of his alliance. From what he knew (Feliks was asleep when he was thinking about it)… his relationship with Matthew, Canada, was reasonable – more of an acquaintance than friend. He and Wang Yao, China, were still bitter with each other about the whole opium deal. Australia and he were allies, purely by Arthur's stubbornness, but not friends. Tino and Berwald, Finland and Sweden, were pretty indifferent; they'd probably come by eventually, but not immediately – same with a lot of the Nordic countries. Honda Kiku and Arthur seemed to have a good, budding relationship… but Lithuania didn't have the shy Japanese man's phone number. Ludwig and Arthur have been trying badly not to offend each other every since the Second World War. Liechtenstein and Vash left the party before the argument ever happened, and so probably had already gotten home by now. Even Scotland and Ireland, Arthur's older brothers, picked on him a lot – and his little brother, Peter, declared himself independent and how considers Tino and Berwald his new brothers.

When he thought about it… it seemed oddly clear. Arthur's life was far more hostile than he gave credit for. Did he ever get any comfort, truly, from anyone? It was no wonder that he snapped. Toris sighed. Even he had someone – Feliks – to help him manage through the absolute horror that was dealing with Ivan.

So of course, after much hassling deliberation, he had asked Francis to come. Apart from Alfred, Francis was the only other person he ever saw Arthur with on a regular basis. He was still, however, awaiting the text back…

"…If you are sure sir. Please don't hesitate to ask anyone if you have any queries. His ward is on the third floor – no, second… I always forget to count the ground floor. The stairs are down the hall and to your left."

"Wait!" Just as Toris and the nurse got the courage to dismiss each other's presence, Feliks came out from the blue with the same degree of excitement as before.

"…Sir?"

"Where did you buy your make-up? Is that Rimmel London, oh wait – you English prefer exports right? Rimmel New York? Paris? Your hair looks totally good too! Do you straighten it, or do you just use a really good shampoo?" Feliks randomly threw out his suppressed girlish knowledge of cosmetics and styling at the poor young British girl, to which Toris groaned and wandered off a bit. He hoped, dearly, that Feliks wouldn't mention anything about him being a cross-dresser in his spare time… and that he once managed to persuade him into wearing a pink dress once. The… embarrassment…! Toris turned around and hit his blushing face, exposing the reddish pigments of his skin to the hospital's white walls alone. A sudden chime came from his pocket in the form of the Lithuanian National Anthem. Finally, Francis had replied to his text…

"…Ah ah… I-I use Garnier…"

"Oh?! You know that some Garnier products are made in Poland? But how do you keep the tips of your hair so vibrant? You colour right? Oh! And we make some perfumes in Poland too, and-"

An abrupt crash came from behind Feliks; to which the Pole and the nurse peered towards curiously. Toris stood frozen, his hand left ajar – as if holding his mobile phone, when in reality it was empty… because it had slipped straight out and smashed against the floor. The back panel and battery had left the phone, and part of the plastic had noticeably chipped off. Feliks's mouth hung open for a second while he tried to think of something to say. The atmosphere was suddenly extremely tense. Sensing the disturbance, the young nurse decided it was now to run away and cease Feliks's feminine harassments and get on with her job. Toris was shaking – badly – almost as badly as Arthur when he stood after the injury… Slowly, Toris turned his head, and gave Feliks's a deathly petrified look.

"What happened, Lithuania?"

"R-Russ-Russia… is coming."

(Salut!

Is he alright? Angleterre est obstiné!

We're already there!

Russie is coming too, mon cher!

He says you went without him and that he's trés upset!

See you there!

Adieu!)

If there were ever any time that Toris craved to go absolutely off his nut crazy, running up and down the hospital halls screaming your heart out… now, would have been the time. Not only had Ivan completely changed his mind about letting him go home with Feliks, or at least forgotten about it rather inconveniently, but they were already inside the building. Toris scrambled over the ground and picked up the pathetic shards of his beloved mobile phone – slaughtered by the ferocity of the dark hearted King of the Kolkhoz and the eternal callous dregs of winter's will. Toris looked down at the deceased bits of metal, glass, and plastic… just like a brother lost forever in battle, cradled in his hands. There were times to mourn the dead; and a time to run for your life… and this time was now.

"Feliks! Let's go, before Russia comes and-!"

"Before Russia comes and what, Lithuania?" An ominously cheery voice sounded from behind him, Feliks's face turned to that of annoyance and total disobedience as said King of the Kolkhoz suddenly appeared from down the hall… his ears sharp as always to cause the maximum amount of misery and discomfort to Toris and his fellow two Baltic nations as physically possible. The time had come and went. His life was over. Goodbye Feliks! Goodbye beautiful Natalia! Ivan… was going to slay him on the spot for leaving him behind. With his brunet hairs standing vibrantly on end and cold shivers representing the cold inhospitable frost of the Russian winter running horribly down his spine, Toris slowly swivelled around on the spot, a look of pure inconceivable dread plastered on his face.

"…R-R-Russia…!"

"Et moi, Lituanie – I hope you didn't forget!" Francis called from behind Ivan's back, a harmonious tune whistling on his lips. For some reason, the man looked far more excitable than usual; a suspiciously deceitful beam on those lips partially hidden behind the obnoxious blond goatee. A similarly shaking duo of countries, matching the degree of fear bestowed in Toris's heart, stood behind Francis as well in the forms of Raivis, Latvia, and Eduard, Estonia. The two shot Toris a devastatingly fearful look as if warning him with all their strength…

"Uhm, no France, of course not… WAIT. I-IS THAT A L-LEAD PIPE?!"

"Da, Lithuania, you noticed." Ivan grinned happily, clutching the long cold spine of bent metal firmly within his hands; the bottom end of the pipe was barely concealed in the confines of Ivan's favourite heavy winter coat. Toris shivered. There was no way that Ivan would have just brought a different pipe in England, just purely for the purpose of ruining his life. Ivan tapped the metal slowly, drawing out every possible negative feeling from Toris with one excruciating slide of the finger.

"Russia… please… why… are you hiding a lead pipe in your coat? Shouldn't customs have detected it in the airport? How could it not have been confiscated by now?!"

"Ah, well… I'm Russia so they didn't bother in the Moscow airport… and they noticed in the English airport, when I ordered you away when you wanted to call Belarus, and they were really angry! But then I gave them a smile and said Latvia was a very _very_ short plumber – and they believed me!"

…_No Ivan… I think they must have been so afraid by your evil smile that they didn't want to disturb you…_Toris groaned, completely and utterly defeated by Ivan's undeniably murderous and evil aura of devious intent and general desire to cause pain to everyone and everything – despite his sweet, giggly exterior. Ivan was absolutely impossible to deal with; apprehension spread all across Toris's petrified body. Toris looked back to Feliks, absolutely desperate to thief any sort of comfort or defence from the man who used to use him as his own lackey…

"Whatever! Hey Lithuania, have a nice journey home! So anyways, I totally gotta pee right now, so I'm going! And I like, wanna ask that nurse what other make-up she uses! So, like, see ya!"

"_P-Pooolaaannnd!"_

Why… of all times… did he decide to be so dormant to Ivan, now?! Toris watched every excruciating step that Feliks took as he wandered away into the distance down the hall, past the entrances to the waiting rooms, and finally out the door at the end – his face remained even more devastated and useless as before. A quick shuffle from Ivan made Toris glance up at the incredibly tall Russian with his eyes utterly dead as all possible hope he could have deprived from Feliks had eluded him. The metallic lead pipe held even firmer in Ivan's gloved hands - hands that were currently performing a gesture that looked just like how Toris imagined wringing a neck would look like (several beads of sweat developed on his forehead) - gave a quick glint reflected from the ceiling lights that blinded his eyes temporarily. He swore he could hear Raivis and Eduard whimper for his sake. Ivan reached forwards and grasped Toris's shoulder in a killer grip.

"Oh. He went. That's good. Da! Lithuania! Why did you leave me?"

"Y-You said I could go home with Poland…"

"Eehhh? I did? I don't remember…! Nyet. You helped England right? I'm glad." Ivan blinked, pretending to remember when it was that he gave such an instruction. The killer grip that was aimed at disconnecting Toris's blood flow tightened dramatically as Ivan talked of Arthur; a violently devastating smirk remained on Ivan's face and his eyes shining peculiar murderous red. Toris felt his body beginning to fall limp and useless under the heavy murderous weight of Ivan's frighteningly evil aura.

"Y-Yes… he was collapsed… we couldn't just have left him, so…"

"Da, you couldn't have _just left him_, could you? I understand. Eh, anyway, let's go home! I've booked the flights already! Let's go!" Ivan glared at Toris, practically daring him with his eyes as the proposition bet to object and defy him, so he had a real reason to cause him the harm that Toris knew he violently craved. Toris nodded silently, shaking like a falling leaf in the dead of autumn. He couldn't shake off the feeling that Ivan over emphasised the words 'just left him' far too bluntly on purpose. Toris shot a scared look to his fellow Baltic nations, and a silent plea of help to Francis… who, of course, was too oblivious to notice anything was wrong at all. In fact… for some unknown and inconceivable reason, Francis seemed pleased that they all had left him on his own…

"Ah… well, I'll see L'Angleterre by myself! Adieu! See you at the G8 meeting tomorrow Russie!" The Frenchmen waved off the multitude of nations, finally alone for the first time in the whole evening. The particular glint that Toris noticed in his eyes remained, sharpening as everyone around him had deserted his immediate area. Francis sniggered to himself, and acquired to Arthur's location from a passing nurse.

Now that Arthur had forgotten everything about them all, he could start afresh and rebuild himself in a good image… idiot or not, anyone would be able to fall in the pits of his freshly created plot – even Arthur. Now that silly American was away from Arthur's eyes… he would finally be able to strike and take Arthur for his own!

The French and English alliance would prevail! He only had to make his beautiful first move…!

The Frenchman licked his lips, and wandered up the staircase… heading directly for the second floor…

AN: No idea how this chapter managed to be devoid of Arthur himself, but, as I said – I intended to change to Arthur when that happened. Don't worry – the rest of the story will be told from Arthur's point of view!

Except from the G8 meeting I noted… that's going to be France. Please look forward to that bit… America will finally make his appearance then!

It doesn't look much like US x UK yet, but I'm building up to it. For now, I think I'm just enjoying the fact that I'm writing a fan fiction about my most favoured series in the world… and about my favourite character.

Every fangirl squees when their loves are in trouble, right? I went crazy when I watched Episode 48 of Hetalia!

ANYWAY…

Apologies to Russia fans if I made Ivan a little too scary! Ivan is actually my favourite character behind England, and just before Poland – I do quite like his secretly evil characteristic.

If you want your favourite character to be featured, just tell me and I'll find somewhere to fit them in!

Sorry for the rambling…

Oh!

And sorry if it gets confusing between the whole "Arthur" and "England" style business. Generally, it's human names outside of speech and countries inside of speech. Except from if it's very important… (Like our lovely Ludwig would call Feliciano by his real name if it was something meaningful)… or if a regular person, like the nurse, doesn't know that said character is a country.

Thank you for reading my fan fiction…! I'm extremely dedicated to it. Please continue to read in the future! *bow*


	3. Drop of Fuel for a Nightmare

Well, this is my favourite chapter so far… mainly because I find England and France's interaction absolutely hilarious. If you're a France x England shipper, you'll love this chapter. Same if you're an England x America shipper… because this is where USUK truly begins~!

Finally we're back with Arthur. Anyone miss him? I did!

Another Sonata Arctica title!

**Chapter 3 – Drop of Fuel for a Nightmare**

Arthur sighed deeply, inhaling the intoxicatingly beautiful scents of the cup of tea he now held lovingly in his hands; as if nurturing the brilliant concoction just alike a young child, lending it his body's warmth as he held it up to his chest. With a small content smirk, Arthur brought the small cup to his lips and tasted the liquid quickly – practically teasing himself with its availability. Disappointingly, a bitter taste invaded his mouth; the cardboard container had merged its hospital disgusting taste with the creamy brown concoction inside. Arthur pouted and immediately discarded the drink to the dark abyss of his desk, denying the existence of a cup of tea for perhaps the first ever time. Hospital food and drink was a nightmare.

Arthur looked forwards, his eyes colliding with a cloaked figure sitting at the chair directly opposite him. At first the sight of the hooded figure had frightened him somewhat, though in the reasonably small while since he had woken up he had become accustomed to its presence. For one; not a single other person seemed to have noticed its existence – all of the nurses and doctors blamed his head for conjuring images that weren't present at all, though it was clear that the thing was physical. And secondly, no matter how you interpreted it… the figure looked almost exactly like that of a Grim Reaper.

While the nurses had left him to his own devices; bringing him a tea _finally_ after he moaned about craving one and that it was indecent for him not to have been offered one at least (they were in England for crying out loud, it was disgraceful!), Arthur had tried communicating with the Grim Reaper. It seemed that he had been hovering around for quite some time, though now he had woken up and there was no danger of Arthur suddenly clonking over and dying any time soon, he was very bored. Apparently, he told Arthur, he could see spirits and fairies… and because the skeletal mass was bored beyond his wits – he thought he'd stick around and keep him company for a while. The Grim Reaper was surprisingly nice like that. And he had a name…

Surely – for the most terrified being in the world, a bringer of both the stubborn darkness of a never-ending abyss and the horrific feeling of cold seeping away at your fingers and draining the remainder of life from your soul forever, the satanic embodiment of death itself, harbinger of all things black, terrible hearted, deceitful and evil, deliverer of fear… one would have a cataclysmic name that would tear apart the heavens with just an inconceivable mutter. And his name, the name of the condemned lord of destruction, was…

"…Clive." Arthur shuffled slightly more upright, careful not to hit his head against anything and cause even more damage and also careful not to remove the line connecting from the middle of Arthur's arm up to the typical hospital equipment; a bag containing the fresh blood of some random person who felt especially kindly one afternoon, and a particularly annoying machine that went 'ping' every so often, as well as a heart monitor that flashed greens, reds and yellows in a way that seemed to be aiming specifically at bringing about nausea and headaches. "Wouldn't you have work to do, if you were really the Grim Reaper? Isn't there supposed to be one person dying every fifteen seconds in Africa or something miserably unfortunate like that?"

The skeleton did nothing except incline his head away from Arthur – his eyes, if he had any that were visible in any way (his skeletal head was devoid of anything other than brittle white bone), facing as far away from Arthur's view as possible. It seemed as if Arthur was correct and the mystical being just didn't wish to admit that he was absolutely ignoring his duty. Arthur gave a quick tut. There was nothing more annoying than someone who just ignored their work just for the sake of it, though morally Arthur couldn't bring himself to entirely think that way – it was just like thinking 'Oh, you should go take the lives of hundreds of people and bring them to whatever afterlife there is, because you're supposed to!' or 'Go murder some people already, you bony git!'… He just couldn't condemn himself to sound like such a fascist.

…That said, how could he have known anything about his personality? What if he really was an absolutely horrific fascist and a dictator of nothing other than evil, weaved expertly within his English fingers? He didn't remember anything, but the first nature of himself that he witnessed to another person was "Damn it, someone fetch me some bloody tea!"… Although it sounded so catastrophically normal for him to say – a shouting voice far too easy for his body to conjure - it was surprisingly harsh was it not? Perhaps he wasn't nice in the slightest; a prospect that entirely confused and startled him. After all… the Grim Reaper decided to stick around when it was clear he was going to live, just to have a chat!

There was one thing he knew for certain. He was Arthur Kirkland… the physical embodiment for the glorious country of England. Great Britain! That was a title that he could definitely find himself being very proud of; Arthur smirked as he imagined it. He must have had a long and fulfilling life… dinner with the queen and dining with the royal hierarchy of kings in the past, alliances with fellow countries, great battles… glory and leadership being his most outstanding qualities! The nation boasted happily in his mind.

And also, he was told that he was brought in to the hospital by some acquaintances of his… a Feliks Lukasiewicz and a Toris Lorinaitis. If he had people who wished to take care of him, then he couldn't have been a really bad person… right? Through the foggy darkness that surrounded the events of last night and the accident that had claimed his memory, Arthur could barely imagine the vague faces of two people who tried to help support him. His head wound ached profusely as he attempted to remember, privately causing him to cringe in pain. They said they were Poland and Lithuania, did they not?

When it came to memory… everything was incredibly fuzzy; he would not have been able to recognise faces, voices, or anything else of the like… but he could remember things stored in long term memory, like historical facts or the fact his country had a monarchy and Governing body both. It was all touch and go. It was a good sign that the loss of memory was only temporary – the doctors seemed extremely relieved when he answered to the general knowledge questions they tried to test him with. But in the effort, a throbbing split in his head that was now bandaged thickly with a line surrounding his forehead and wrapping behind his dirty yellow strands of hair, he had lost his identity.

There was one overwhelming thought that controlled the very spirits of Arthur's mind. Who on Earth was Alfred, and what kind of relationship did he have with him? As he thought, his heart practically whimpered internally, sending his logical mind absolutely mixed signals. He could identify a fear and an undyingly strong sense of disappointment primarily… filling his chest with a sensation of emptiness - as if someone had torn his heart into two desolate fragments. Although a warmth hidden deep down behind the initial feelings of melancholy confused his interpretation utterly.

What the heck could it be?!

He cradled his head in his hand, careful not to prod his forehead too hard and stopping him yelping in agony. His thoughts echoed the same name again and again; calling for that one man, practically yearning for his help. Whoever Alfred was… Arthur felt like he needed him desperately. His lonely heart moaned away groggily in his chest, heart monitoring beeping slightly faster than before, as he tried as hard as he could to create a visual image of the man in his head. For merely a second, Arthur had created a basic facial outline before losing it promptly when footsteps coming from a particularly clunky pair of women's shoes were heard nearby the doorway.

"Arthur… there is someone here to see you. He seems rather eager – he says his name is Francis Bonnefoy. Want me to send him in?"

Arthur glanced to the doorway and regarded the young nurse dressed in a friendly pallid blue before his eyes suddenly became distracted by the absolutely insane figure standing in the hallway behind. A bright obnoxious blue shirt and mantel covered the upper half of his body, while equally over the top and obnoxious red trousers fitted underneath. Arthur winced; his eyes were incredibly sensitive since he woke up, and the awfully vibrant man waiting keenly behind the nurse was already contributing to another pathetically large headache. Who the heck was this bizarre man? The man's stubble and long hair only adding further towards Arthur's immediate wariness towards him, although it was undoubted by the feeling of recognition that he knew the identity of the abhorrent idiot. Francis Bonnefoy was a name that instantaneously made him feel slightly uneasy... and the excited smirk he could interpret on his haughty face just added a drop of fuel for a nightmare.

"Arthur!" Francis practically skipped into the room, pushing past the nurse out of strong impatience and flung himself over distastefully to his side. The nurse sighed and closed the door behind them to give them some privacy. Arthur pulled a less than amused face – wondering what on earth possessed him to be an acquaintance of this particularly weird and surprisingly endearing idiot. They were probably acquaintances because the latter was another country… there was no way the bizarre antics of the man could have been conjured by someone from England, Arthur thought distinctively with self-pride. He was definitely a foreigner. Francis aimed to drag a chair over to his side, though Arthur suddenly lurked up in his bed to stop him from stealing the Grim Reaper's seat…

"Don't sit there! Clive's sitting there!" Arthur reached his hand out, just as if he was expecting it to grow much longer and become able to stop Francis in his tracks. The unknown foreigner gave Arthur a quick quizzical look before glancing at the chair in displeasure; as if he just found out some horrible act had been committed on that very chair or that he would catch some disgusting disease from sitting in it, cursed by 'Clive's' presence. Arthur's mouth stayed gaped open; realising he had basically admitted to some random man that he sees things that other people don't seem to see at all.

"…That's so typical of you, L'angleterre" Francis mused, smirking in a fashion that aroused great suspicion in Arthur's mind. The smile didn't suit him at all… or maybe it fit perfectly – regardless, Arthur seemed to desire wiping it off of the silly man's face, for no known reason. He let an exhale release as Francis found it wise to leave the questionable Grim Reaper, King of Destruction, for the time being and pulled a different chair besides Arthur's bed and promptly sat. The distance between them was hardly fifteen centimetres; the strange foreigner practically diving in his close proximity… a very Cheshire cat like grin pasted on his face.

"Ah, L'Angleterre. I came as quickly as I could after Lithuania called me, all for you, _mon cher_" Francis smiled, pulling himself closer. Arthur nudged away slightly by reflex, to which Francis pouted to. What language was that? Arthur struggled to remember.

"Oh mon cher, don't say you don't remember me either?"

"Frankly… no, I don't!"

"You don't even remember your wonderful lover?"

The room fell silent, Arthur stayed absolutely immobile – his eyes frighteningly wide with shock. Francis moved ever so slightly closer, leaving his chair behind and bending over the hospital bed; a sly devious finger ran up Arthur's neck and pulled up his chin, forcing the Englishman to face him directly. The Cheshire grin continued, as the obnoxious man let his hot breath trail onto Arthur's now violently blushing cheeks. Arthur's mind was going crazy.

"W-What?!"

"You really forgot? My… Arthur… I can't believe it. And after I satisfied you so thoroughly too. This is disappointing, mon cher." Francis purred in Arthur's ear.

"I…? You?! We…?"

"Don't you remember Arthur, my love? We've been sleeping together ever since New Year's… every night was better than the last… I've never heard a man moan so sexily before then. You're walking seduction, Arthur. Sex on legs. I simply cannot believe a man like you became mine... I still remember how _delicieux_ your face was when you begged for me. You yearned so affectionately. How could I have ever resisted you, _mon cher_?" Francis chuckled in Arthur's ear, internally pleased that Arthur was not throwing him off – it seemed that his plan was working…

Arthur's heart beat rose dramatically; whether it was out of shock, fear, or the new sensation the foreigner had persuaded into his mind. Arthur flinched as his whispers filled his ears, his body now shaking as the warmth hit him. His cheeks began blushing violent scarlet. Was this man talking the truth?! His body spiked with painful pangs, tricked into believing Francis as the latter slowly slid his hand across his side. Goose bumps tortured away at his arms; he was burning with a heat that could only be explained as either one of severe resentment and embarrassment… or want.

There couldn't be any chance he was gay, could there? Arthur bit his lip, remaining immobile as he desperately tried to fathom what to do. He knew nothing about himself, other than the raw emotions he retained out of his true nature. His mind practically forced him to groan as he strolled upon a reason; a sound that the man touching him seemed to interpret strongly.

He was obsessing himself with the identity of the 'Alfred' person, was he not? It was almost as if he was lovesick for him. Now that Arthur thought of it; the tear in his heart was entirely hollow, as if he was broken hearted. The deeper feelings of happiness when he thought of Alfred became explained as well.

His head filled with possible scenarios… perhaps he was in love with Alfred, but the couple broke up, and then he found himself in Francis's arms? Maybe Alfred was his secret lover behind Francis's back, or the other way around? Maybe he was in love with Alfred… so desperately that he clung onto his name and his name alone… while allowing himself to be comforted by Francis's hand?!

Francis's hands snaked upwards, teasing the sides of Arthur's upper chest; ignoring the hospital setting and the plastic medical gown Arthur was forced to wear. He brought his lips seductively close… almost brushing against Arthur's sweet plush pink pair. A finger ran across, stroking an erect nipple softly before moving in for the kiss…

The next second, Francis was almost sprawled across the floor; his hand holding on tightly to the metal frame of the bed and only just stopping himself from smacking hard against the floor. He looked up to see the Arthur's face blazing a shade of red he didn't know was possible for a man to create. Arthur's arms remained in the position they were when he pushed Francis away from his body rapidly.

"Don't you _DARE_ touch Manchester!" Arthur growled, grabbing the covers of his bed and pulling them tightly over his frame… completely out of Francis's capable hands. He cupped the duvet particularly close to his chest, hands hovering protectively over his abs.

"Arthur? What's wrong?" Francis raised an eyebrow.

"You are no lover of mine!"

Francis smirked as he realised what he was protecting. So even the boisterous, stubborn United Kingdom had weaknesses… and who knew it was so juicy? If he was in another environment, he would have happily pounced back on Arthur and exploited his sensitivity… making sure to make the nation moan again and again…

"Of course I am!"

"No, you're not! You git! If you were my lover, you'd know that I'd never let you touch either Manchester or York!"

"Well. I'm surprised – you're still you, even after losing your memory it seems. That was nice while it lasted. …Who knew you had such a dirty weakness, Arthur! Who would have thought that you'd be so protective of _them_?" Francis laughed heartily, pulling himself back up to a standing position. He fully intended to torment Arthur thoroughly for this in the future, though for now, he would bide his time and use his newly acquired information for good use. Would he use it all primarily on his own desires, or lend the information to Ivan or maybe …Alfred? Francis raised a quizzical eyebrow as a thought came across him.

"S-Shut up! Who the hell are you anyway?!"

"My my. I would have thought you would have done better than that… did you not pay attention to the language? Bonjour! Je m'appelle Francais! France!"

"…I should have figured it would have been, you frog." Arthur pouted, still holding his duvet close to himself in case Francis tried to pull another move on him. Finally he realised why the language was bugging him with its familiarity. French was a language spoken quite well in England at a few times few the ages after all, when the French idiot had managed to invade his vital regions in the past. It was amusing to think that it was them who had fought drastically against each other back then. All those wars, sharing battlefields just to try annihilate the other. It was surreal truly. Arthur smirked, surprisingly happy now that he allowed himself time to relax.

"Oh, don't be coy." Francis drew himself closer though left the proximity between them wide apart once again; the Englishman would have slain him if he had stepped a single step closer. He knew better than to test the man's temper. Even with their past as rivals, they had always remained somewhat friendly despite their attempts to slit each other's throats – for now, he wished to appear on Arthur's good side.

A sudden thought filled Arthur's mind… a memory as it were, or at least a snippet of what he had thought to himself only the night previously in the Frenchman's disfavour. Arthur glared at Francis for a second, before bursting out into laughter.

"…What?"

"Oh, nothing! Hah. I just remembered something from last night, that's all." Arthur sniggered, remembering those thoughts clearly now. ('There was a prat… France was the nation… who was a complete total molesting git.')

"…Well I'm glad you're happy." Francis pouted. "Do you remember anything else?"

"…Not a thing." Arthur confessed. He was not sure whether Francis knew that he requested against 'Alfred's' knowledge of what had happened the night before. Vaguely, Arthur could remember the hot tears that streamed down his face and the cascading rain heading haphazardly from the skies, the heavens erupting along with him in his sadness. He couldn't remember why he had been so sad, or why he found himself drowning in crimson from his head wound. There was a thud in his memory, he knew that much. He didn't remember anything else being there except from Toris and Feliks, so obvious whatever hit him was self caused – was it not?

For some reason, Arthur couldn't help but imagine the faded ghostly face of a little boy… his expression was so happy initially, though somehow the image suddenly turned miserable in his mind's eye. The little boy frowned, rain flowing straight through him and dispersing his face just like a mirage. …For some reason… the boy's face suddenly grew older – a man in uniform now stood weakly, an expression showing a stronger sense of fear and pity than Arthur thought possible. In the vision, Arthur could decipher a gun… pointed directly at the man's throat…

…Alfred?

"France. What happened? No one has explained anything to me. Who… is Alfred?" Arthur whispered lightly.

"You threw a birthday party for Alfred; you were organising it for about a month… getting the right entertainment, drinks, food, guests… everything. I was actually very impressed – I don't think any of us expected you to do such a good job. I can't remember why you had it in London and not his home… I think it was because you didn't have any good contacts over there and it would be easier.

It was going really great, until Alfred started complaining about some of the things – nitpicking a bit. He kept saying a few things behind your back, just little insignificant things… and then you heard him mention something. I'm not sure what it was, but you went absolutely crazy at him for it. Biggest argument I've seen with my beautiful eyes for a long while. Next thing we know, you've ran out crying.

He was talking to Canada at the time I think… only he and Alfred knows what he said now that you've hurt yourself. Whatever it was, it must have hurt you so much. I've never seen you run away from something like that before Arthur. And needless to say – no one saw you hurt yourself. If Toris and Feliks had not found you, you probably would have been in serious trouble." Francis sighed.

Arthur blinked up a few times, utterly speechless. He hadn't thought that he and the Alfred person had such a harsh relationship. So why did it hurt so much whenever he thought about that name? It seemed, Arthur crouched up in the bed, as if it was a love that was not returned at all – completely one-sided. Why else would he have spent so long trying to create a birthday party that took a month to prepare? Why else would he have gotten so offended when he heard Alfred speak, presumably, against him? Arthur stared blankly at the covers, trying to focus that image in his head once more.

"Mon cher, I'll be leaving. You've obviously got some recovering to do. You will try to remember some of the things we've done, non?" Francis smiled before heading back over towards the door. "Just remember… if you ever need any comfort, you know exactly who to turn to.

And Arthur – for a moment, I made you believe we were lovers, did I not? You've never been with a man before in my knowledge, but you accepted the possibility very quickly. This person, Alfred… you are in love with him, aren't you?"

Arthur stayed silent, opening and closing his mouth a few times awkwardly, before finally passing a few conceivable words. "I… don't know."

"Don't think too much into it,_ merci_." Francis smiled, more out of comfort and sympathy for the slightly young nation than joy. He opened the door and begun to walk outside, before sticking his head back inside for one last remark.

"Take care of Manchester and York for me!" He sung.

"GET LOST YOU STUPID FROG-FACED GIT!"

Part one of tormenting Arthur for joy… success! Francis grinned and headed away down the hospital corridors. Truth be told, he was hurt internally by the thought of Arthur and Alfred having such an intimate relationship. He had always craved the sexual affections of Arthur for himself. Yet now, at least he knew that Arthur was unsure about his sexual alignment… a fact that he would never have been able to fetch from the nation before the accident happened. There was a chance; after all, that Alfred and Arthur would never bring it upon themselves to make up – especially when Arthur did not remember which nation Alfred was. All the physical interpretation of the United Kingdom knew was that he had an argument with that man…

There was still a chance for his advancements to make a dramatic effect. Francis smirked happily, trying to formulate a new strategy to woo Arthur's affections. The G8 meeting tomorrow would certainly be interesting…

**----**

**Next chapter: The G8 meeting…**

America, Canada, Italy, Germany, and Japan finally make their appearance!


	4. Silence in the Courthouse

_Thanks for the great reviews guys; all of them made me very happy indeed! I'm glad people liked the FrUK bit~ I was sniggering so hard while I was writing it._

_Before anyone asks, I did make it up that his nipples were Manchester and York… though if you look at a map of England, they are exactly in that place – no?_

_Though you'll never look at those places the same again :D._

_I forgot to mention that I deliberately shortened the size of the paragraphs; is it better to read now? (Should I shorten them more?)_

_I'll say this now: The storyline is quite flexible, though I do know exactly how the most important details will occur. If you want any characters to pop up or a certain thing to happen, then just nudge me and I'll get right to it! Really, I'll accept any requests – as long as it doesn't go too far from the plotline._

_Anyone have any suggestions for some Sonata Arctica lyrics to be a chapter title?_

**Chapter 4 – Silence in the Courthouse**

Early morning coffee, the perfect cure for a hangover that almost split your head apart with the ferocity of being pummelled head first against the cold hard ground. Strong, with fragments of Coffee beans (though technically, coffee beans are not actually beans) – not the powdered stuff you usually receive from the automated machines. Two sugars, one for the taste and one to calm you down for good measure. Milk? None; cow's milk always seems to taste bitter this time of year for some reason or another, or so he observed, especially in England. Something to do with the heat, probably, which… frankly was ridiculous. England always seemed to rain, rain, and rain.

Alfred rubbed his aching head with his fingers – a few droplets ran onto the tips and soaked in between his nails, a remainder from the awful rain that was pouring all over England; his head hurt dramatically. It felt like he had been punched or delivered a blow directly in his forehead… though that was purely because of the alcoholic content that he consumed last night. So many drinks! He knew why Arthur was such a happy advocate of pubs and drinking now that he had spent a whole night in the pubs of Britain. The British seemed to reach another level of drunkenness entirely in comparison to home - a class of their own.

It was purely frightening to spend the night doing a bar crawl around London after the events of his birthday, July the fourth. The amount of people who had ran carelessly into him, fell over on the floor and absolutely ruined themselves was immense. The amount of women who had flocked to his side whenever he flashed them his most striking all-American smile was just fantastic. British women seemed to drape themselves all over for good looking American men; probably because a lot of the British men got dirty and violent when they drunk. People were sick by the sidewalk, men lifted up women's skirts… It was absolutely hilarious.

Though of course, they were all drunk. Anything becomes hilarious when people drink.

It was a fulfilling night to Alfred, though now that he was back into the very real world of business as the representation of the country America, he rejected it deeply. With a quick swig of the coffee, a pleasured sigh emitted from his lips. As he wiped his hand through his wet dirty blond hair, more droplets of water plummeted to the floor. It was typical – he knew that England was prone to wet weather every so often, they were renowned for it, but however he didn't quite comprehend the scale. It had been raining since the third, when he first arrived, and now on the sixth... it was still 'bucketing it' down.

Alfred pushed open the door to the meeting room with his hip, while holding firmly onto his beloved coffee and a folder of important documents held in his hands. Though most of the documents were decorated with doodles of him in a superman costume (with super boxers instead of super briefs - he had slightly more dignity) and a large 'A' written on the front instead of S… because it was obvious – _he_ was the hero! Alfred glared into the dark brown mixture, making sure to slow carefully so not a single delicious drop was lost.

Glaring around, Alfred realised inevitably that he was the first one to arrive. His eyes widened happily with anticipation. He had beaten every single other country in the G8… all seven of them! Alfred plopped his possessions down at a desk, removing his soaked bomber jacket and immediately checking his watch. He was on time, exactly on the dot – precise and convenient was a fashion that he loved reaching. But where was everyone else?

Francis he understood; the man said he had something very serious to attend to the day before. Something about someone he knew, and that it was all in the name of 'amour' or whatever - he had been extremely vague. What did 'amour' mean anyway? Alfred scoffed. He had no time to learn French… he had Matthew to do that after all, so there was no point. Francis noted that he had to get up very early in the morning for it… but he had a whole night to sleep that off, he had no explanation for being late now.

Alfred glanced at his watch again. Everyone else was two minutes late. What was going on?

Ivan said he had some disciplinary issues to contend with as well... though that wouldn't effect today, surely? Alfred paced around the room for a bit, settling at the front – he aimed at it being him to do most of the speaking. He hoped by 'discipline', he didn't mean punishing Toris. Ivan was not exactly happy with him after Toris left to go home on the fourth. That torturous face of Ivan's cropped up in Alfred's mind, and the American pleaded in silence for his friend's safety.

Ludwig... was also late. That was undoubtedly uncharacteristic of him. Feliciano, he understood – not because he had any excuse, but because obviously… it was Feliciano. Kiku was known for being precise at arriving, even though he was not precise in speech. …Who else was late? Oh, Matthew – though Matthew was not the type exactly to turn up on time for the meetings usually.

There was someone else of course that was missing - the host of this year's G8 meeting himself. Alfred refused to state his name in even his mind. He was always punctual - back in the Second World War, he had come in early to draw those caricatures of the Axis Powers… and every since, he was usually the first to appear in any meetings, excluding Ludwig and Kiku at a stretch. Especially when this year's G8 was supposed to be performed in his native country, Alfred expected the blond to have at least been there to greet the rest.

Not that Alfred wished to greet Arthur at all at that point. Ever since their argument on _his_ birthday had occurred, they hadn't exchanged a single word. It wasn't exactly his fault – Arthur was eavesdropping on a private conversation he was having with his brother, an act that Alfred condoned entirely (though he often did it himself many a time... that didn't matter. _He_ didn't try ripping the other's throat out just over a silly little comment). Who knew the British nation would become so peeved by it? It was madness of the highest degree.

The next thing Alfred knew was that Arthur was erupting with tears and promptly left. It was torment from there. They had attracted a rather big crowd to watch their spectacle; almost everyone else in the room fell silent when Arthur first shrieked at him. "You pathetic American git!"… Alfred remembered his words rather clearly. When he left, it remained silent. A few people left as well, and the rest didn't try talk to him all night.

Which was a good thing, as Alfred became extremely distracted afterwards.

There was something significant about Arthur's gigantic reaction to one mere sentence that not a single other country apart from himself and Matthew knew. It stunned initially Alfred that Arthur had become so irate over such a petty thing… until he begun looking into it with a bit of a deeper meaning.

"I can't believe England tried to pull a party like this off. I mean – it looks as if he's trying to get into my pants or something. It's like he's obsessed or something."

Where was the harm in that? Okay – fine… he understood why one would get very angry with it. It was a bad insult… one hell of a low blow. Initially Alfred had thought that Arthur hated the fact that he was discussing the party with an ill tone, and so he argued against him and protected himself. Arthur did spend a lot of money and time in getting it sorted out. He would have probably snapped as well. But… when you scraped away the surface…

Was… Arthur… was he in love with him or something?

It was ridiculous to think. Arthur had pretty much raised him from nothing, out of the goodness of his heart. He was just like a brother to him in the earlier days. Although countries can't use ages as indicators, how could Arthur think that way at all about someone who he watched grow up? And then they had the tragedy of independence; Arthur… was never the same after that happened. It was his own fault though…

Arthur was too strict on him – 'don't get close to anyone but me!', 'Watch out for all the other countries, America!'… It drove Alfred to the wall. Arthur had acted like Alfred was his property. But he was only trying to protect him wasn't he? The world was hostile at the time, fights occurring absolutely everywhere… so maybe Arthur was just trying to nurture him through the tough spots?

It was so hard to tell with Arthur when he was lying or telling the truth on so many occasions – so Alfred begun to believe neither. Every word Arthur said and each simplistic smile just fuelled Alfred's fear of being double crossed. Whenever Arthur said 'I'll be back soon'… he never showed his face for weeks. How on earth could a man like this be trusted? He was one to say words without expressing any meaning behind them at all, and when it came to it – he even ended up betraying himself.

It was Arthur, after all, who seemed like he was going to win the battle for Alfred's independence. Alfred's gun was tossed out of his hands and sailed through the air to meet a bitter end in a puddle on the dirty ground below – the razor-like spear attached to Arthur's gun was pointing straight at Alfred's throat. He could have killed him easily. He could have won, right then and there. But why did the Englishman toss down his gun and weep, cursing everything?

Alfred always pretended from then on that it was an absolute victory for him… but in reality, it was only Arthur's loss - a devastating loss for one single man. Arthur spared him, and gave up then and there. Betrayed himself and let Alfred go free. Just like a child who had to release an ill animal back into the wild. The man had a much bigger heart than he ever was given credit for.

From that point, Arthur seemed to be like a toy soldier that could not be fixed. He seemed to lose a piece of himself that day. What was it? Dignity? The supremacy of authority? Or was it just the will power to fight back? Maybe a part of him agreed with Alfred, against himself. That was something about Arthur that Alfred always had tried to ignore. Arthur seemed disturbed in his own skin – unhappy, despite having a vast Empire at his disposal in the past… something always was on his mind.

Arthur always came home with new scars and bruises scattered on his body. He was not one to make and hold friends. His only extended relationship was with Francis, and they fought so many times that Alfred couldn't count. Maybe that was why he drunk so much - drinking to forget. Arthur always wanted to forget.

Alfred remembered the time when Arthur came home in the early morning, when he thought Alfred was still asleep. His hand was badly wounded – a permanent scar ripped into his skin. Alfred remembered those tears of his vividly. He had drunk until he fell asleep, sobbing into the arm of the chair while Alfred hid out of sight by the window. Arthur wore a glove on that hand for months, and only took it off in privacy… his voice filled with swears and pain every time it was removed. He obviously was in significant pain – but he covered it so he could stop Alfred from getting worried. He cared like that.

Dear God, he was getting depressed over something as petty as nostalgia again. He really was acting like an old man! Haha… ha…

But… love was another thing, wasn't it? There was family love, a shield of protection unifying you together… and then there was _love_. The idea of the broken hearted soldier of Britannia loving him was nerve wracking. It would explain so much, and yet it confused Alfred completely.

It was just ridiculous. Ever since they had thrown those awful derogatory words at each other out of anger...

Arthur had not left his mind. Not once.

The image of Arthur's teary face as he shouted at him was engraved in his head forever. He always saw Arthur's face wearing a frown, or tears, or a blank expression in his mind's eye whenever he referred to him. For some reason, he never engrained one of Arthur's smiles alongside them. But then, has Arthur… ever smiled? One of Arthur's true smiles – not one that was conjured falsely for reassurance – never seemed to grace his lips. He lost the will to smile for himself. There was always something dragging him down.

Was that something… _him?_

"I'm against it! If he said not to tell him, then we should follow his word!"

Voices from outside erupted into the room from behind the crack of the door. The voices were spoken with a low hushed whisper, though angry intensity remained in their tone. It sounded like a heated argument that was wished to remain secret. Who were 'he' and 'him'? Oh, did he really have to ask himself? It was obvious who they were referring to! But what was Arthur asking them not to tell?!

"Ve… We should do what he says!"

"You're being strangely obedient…"

"Because I agree with Germany! He went through a lot, so let's pay attention to what he says. Ve?"

"I'm sorry but I must respectfully disagree."

"Japan?"

"His friend is… I mean, if they are ever to make up then now is the time. H-He _needs_ someone right now. And… for the good of their friendship…"

"That's right… your culture is very dependent on building good relationships, isn't it Japan…?"

"Da? Who are you?"

"Ah! It's America!!"

"…I'm not America… I'm Canada."

"Who?"

"The one who feeds you – I said that three times already this morning Kumajirou!"

"Well… umm… now that you're here… do you know the situation about England and-"

"Yes. And I think we should tell him too. What about you, France?"

"I don't think we should tell him, mes amis."

"You saw him yesterday. Correct?"

"Oui Allemagne. He was in a total state, kept staring blankly into nothing. I did find out something new about L'Angleterre though. He's a lot more unpredictable than I expected when he's like this".

"What something new? What could that be?"

"That's for me to know and you to find out, Russie"

"Ehh?! That's mean! I took you all the way there too!"

"You went to get Lituanie, you left as soon as you got him back!"

"We've stalled enough! It's a majority vote, and so we are not telling him until we have permission. Is this clear?! We are going to get the meeting started. I will accept no arguments!"

As the group outside began to shuffle, Alfred quickly removed his ear from the crack of the door and hurried quickly back over to his spot. What on earth were they all talking about? It was something that could have been dismissed as an 'Oh, maybe England isn't coming because he was too upset from the fourth' and that everyone was just protecting Arthur's dignity. But analysing the tones of their voices – Alfred grinned; his superior mind worked wonders. Whoever said he was stupid before? – He knew there was something deeper than that.

'He was in a total state, kept staring blankly into nothing'. Did Arthur really get that upset? He sounded even more broken hearted and pitiful than usual. He hated feeling guilty.

The rest of the countries quickly opened the door and poured inside. A few of them reacted when they saw that he had been there all the time. They exchanged quick greetings. Was it possible that they were a little scared because of the hectic drama the other night? When Alfred thought of it – they kept sounding as if they were more concerned for Arthur than him, on his side. How could that be? Arthur was out of line, eavesdropping like that! They shouldn't have shown sad faces like that to him…!

_He_ was the hero…

Everyone gave him a nod, some turned to random small talk conversations about the bad weather, and they settled down incredibly quickly. Alfred watched them curiously, not saying a single word, just in case they gave any more clues to what the heck was going on. Alfred sighed. It really didn't matter. Canada sent him a sympathetic look before sitting down.

Who cared what Arthur thought or felt?! Arthur had no right to feel bad about something he shouldn't have heard. And why did he, the embodiment of the awesome American spirit, have to feel so gloomy about it? He was America! The greatest nation in the whole world! Keep smiling and your worries won't exist!

"Hm? England's not here? Oh well. Let's continue!" Alfred said enthusiastically, ignoring the distraught faces of those now seated in front of him. Everyone fell silent to his command. They were unusually responsive to his authority today… great!

"So! About this global warming thing… I think we shou-"

"No!"

Alfred faced the source of the random voice, a shocked expression gracing his face. Of all people he had expected to interrupt his speech, the only oriental eastern nation in the whole G8 was not one of them. Almost everyone turned to look at the handsome black haired and usually polite Japanese man – who had suddenly stood up and hit his hands against the table.

"J-Japan?"

"What are you doing?!"

"I… I don't think this is right at all! How can we just all sit here in knowledge while America is oblivious, and doing nothing about it? I don't understand it! He's his friend, so he should know! America-san… England-san is-"

"Arthur's in Hospital, Alfred." Francis said suddenly, in turn interrupting Kiku's speech – sparing the man who had turned plush red as he realised that everyone was looking in his direction with distressed eyes. Kiku quickly sat down and kept to himself, glancing at the desk and averting himself away from eye contact.

Alfred blinked. Francis deemed it something important enough to use his human name rather than country? It was for good reason. It was a matter that was suited more on a personal basis – after all. Why would the country of America want to be informed that Arthur Kirkland got hurt? This was something directed at Alfred. Not the people of America. Just him…

"There was an accident on the fourth, just after Arthur ran out. No one really knows how it happened, but when Lituanie and Pologne found him… he had smashed his head so badly that he almost died of blood loss. If they were ten minutes later, Arthur wouldn't have survived. And…

He doesn't remember anything Alfred. He doesn't remember who any of us are, what we look like, or anything like that. He doesn't even remember himself. Well, he knows about England… what has happened in history… but not _Arthur_.

But he remembers your name. And he knows that you were angry with him before he got hurt. So he asked Lituanie and Pologne not to tell you."

The entirety of the room turned to face Alfred; expectant of a strong reaction. His friend had gotten himself badly hurt, which was the first reason why they expected Alfred to be concerned. Secondly, the fact that Arthur knew nothing was a shocking tragedy in itself. But thirdly… the whole room expected him to react the most stubbornly to the very last fact – that of everyone, every single person that Arthur could have remembered… it was him.

For a second, Alfred stood with a blank expression gracing his face. How was he going to react? Everyone expected the worst. All of them seemed to lend him a drab look of the purest empathy.

"Oh? …Really? Well, that sucks for him. Now! Back to the subject at hand!" Alfred announced, letting a smile form on his face again – to the utter dismay of all six other countries present. He turned quickly and begun writing on the board, humming the American national anthem happily to himself. Everyone else glanced at each other in awe.

Could Alfred really be so heartless?! They must have thought. Did he really care nothing for the conditions of a person that he grew up with and remained allies with through the ages? Why didn't he as much as blink when Francis said that Arthur could have died? Alfred was far too uncaring. He obviously couldn't read the atmosphere, even now! It was… it was…

…Ridiculous.

With his back to the rest of the other nations; Alfred could disguise his terrified expression and his quivering hands. His eyes remained cruelly dry, though the severity of the guilt that embraced him made him want to escape their critical eyes immediately.

Arthur didn't want him to know that he was in trouble; he had maintained his stubbornness through every situation in the past and ever since, even now. The Brit wanted to push away the only thing that was familiar to him. But did he remember having an argument with him, or did he remember him in a bad light? Why did he want to push him away?

Could it be that Arthur… _wanted_ to leave all his memories behind? Just like drinking to forget… his amnesia was so convenient.

Maybe now, Arthur wouldn't look so pitiful when absorbed in thinking of the past.

-----

"You don't feel that way. Do you?"

Alfred gave Matthew a quizzical look, questioning the intentions of his brother. The rest of the countries had deserted the meeting hall a long while ago, and until now Matthew had been tragically quiet… though they all had been. It was hushed without Arthur there to cause arguments and mischief. He brought out the worst in everyone; but even the unpleasant wrath of the countries combined together in amusing harmony was a thousand times sweeter than the silence. It was absolutely unbearable without the usual noise. Even Feliciano was seriously quiet. Though they did get a lot more done than usual… it just wasn't the same without the eighth edition. What was wrong with them all!? Was Arthur really this important to them, and _him_?

"What are you talking about Mattie?" Alfred called out with a grin as he sipped the surface of his third cup of coffee that day. He faked obliviousness. "What way?"

"You care about him." Matthew spoke blankly, staring directly at Alfred and frowning pitifully when Alfred turned his back.

"Who's that?" He muttered after he finished draining the entirety of the cup, down to the last delicious sugary droplet.

"I'm Cana- Oh, wait. I mean, Arthur – England – obviously." Matthew fumbled.

"Why would you think that? Ha, ha." Alfred muttered tonelessly, losing the excitable and enthusiastic tone for the first time ever since he found out about the incident. He laughed tenaciously for a few more seconds, before it faded away – leaving the sound to echo cruelly in the meeting hall's empty cavern. He gathered his files and shoved them disorderly back into his folder. It was all jumbled… but it would do. He turned to leave.

"You know what I mean Alfred… so don't pretend, okay? You've been wearing the fakest smile I've ever seen and the least convincing enthusiasm ever since France told you." Matthew's hand found Alfred's arm and ceased the American from moving another step further. He was not holding on very hard at all, but Alfred stopped easily enough. "You should go see him. France said he was in bad condition…"

"I heard that, I was listening to you all when you were outside."

"…Well… that isn't very surprising really. Alfred? Are you still bitter about your birthday?"

Alfred scoffed. Needless to say, he was sincerely pissed off. He wanted to punch Arthur straight in the teeth, then and there. He remembered thinking immediately after 'If I see Arthur, I'm going to kill him' without a single hint of regret peeking his mind. He'd never forgive Arthur for that. He was going to hold a grudge in his memory for a long time coming. Of course he was bitter about it.

But…

The anger hadn't lasted truthfully for very long. Sure – he'd hold a grudge against Arthur for that night for a long time… though it was just like Arthur getting upset whenever the anniversary of independence came along. He was fine the rest of the time, or at least he pretended to be. Alfred couldn't bring himself to pretend; instead, he promised himself that he wouldn't let himself to get angry about that in any day other than then.

It was ironic really. The day that Arthur was angry at him and the day that Alfred would hold the grudge in return fell on the exact same date. That was Arthur's fault, obviously. But, Alfred couldn't help but feel like their positions had swapped.

Arthur was the one suffering before, though now it was him who became oblivious to the other's sadness.

It was stupid wasn't it? It was his birthday after all… could he really be grumpy against Arthur on that day forever?

Would there ever be one opportunity when Arthur stopped invading the whole of his mind?!

"Yes."

"Al… you don't want to be angry forever, do you?" Matthew said calmly.

How could it be that his brother got every single thing correct so far? Maybe his personality was so predictable. He really thought that no one had seen through his disguised happiness. Alfred lent Matt a bewildered look.

"I'm guessing that's a yes."

"But… Matt – I can't go see him anyway. Even if I wanted to." Alfred dropped his glance away from those eyes, brimming with brotherly concern. A thought crossed his mind. "Unless…"

"Unless what?"

"Does he know that Alfred is America?"

"…I don't know. I guess so?"

"I'll go see him. I won't tell him that I'm Alfred… but America. It'll all be alright." Alfred grinned happily, formulating his plan in his mind already. The logic was so easy, but it worked perfectly! He was a genius… though everyone knew that already, because he's the hero! "Should I go now or later? Tomorrow? No… today. I'll go now. Here, take these"

Alfred shoved his work folder in Matthew's free arm, while the other was holding Kumajirou, and sped towards the exit, now unburdened of any baggage to weigh him down. Matt fumbled to keep both burdens in his arms while his brother was escaping.

He needed to see him. Ever since the thought crossed his mind, he had begun to be obsessed with putting his newly formulated plan into action. He wanted to see Arthur, so stubbornly… though he didn't even know the reason why. His day had been just empty without him. Within his heart, he had already forgiven him – something that Alfred initially thought would never ever happen. Why did his mind willingly fixate on just one single person? Why Arthur?

It was because he thought Arthur was in love with him – wasn't it?

He might have accidentally fallen for him in return.

He'll make Arthur see him in a good light instead of bad. 'Just you wait and see', he promised.

"W-wait Alfred! Where are you going? I need someone to come with me back to the hotel! Its right next to a pub and drunken Englishmen are scary! And it's already dark outside!"

"It's alright Mattie! Just ignore them – they'll only harm you if you harm them! Or look at them weirdly. Or look at their girlfriends. Or knock over their drinks. Or laugh at them. Or deliberately avoid eye contact. Or uh… walk past…

Okay… that doesn't help. Just don't let it get to you! You'll do great! Don't forget your big brother's American fighting spirit, okay?!" Alfred called while leaving through the opened door.

"Alfred! Wait!" Matthew called out, while trying to catch up with him. The door shut in his face. "…I wanted to come too. I guess I'll just go tomorrow. How's that, Kumajirou?"

"Who?"

"…Forget it… So ridiculous."

**----**

**Another chapter!**

**I promised it would be out today, didn't I? Haha.**

**One thing I want to note: We all know that in manga, it's all about "nakama" most of the time – yes? Naturally, I think Japan would feel very strongly towards enforcing those nakama bonds; so I think I can justify him having an outburst in that area, despite his usually agreeable personality.**

**Now… You can see, the proper England x America begins.**

**It's a quite sad relationship right now, but that's going to change. It IS America at the wheel after all.**

…**Do you guys want USUK or UKUS? (Who's the seme?!)**

**It's hard to think with this couple – either would suit either role fine.**

**Next chapter:**

**America and England finally see each other for the first time since their argument.**


	5. The Loneliest Child Alive

_Alright – based on the reviews that you guys have given me… it'll probably be America as the seme. As much as I love the idea of England being sexually superior, in this story… I don't really see if going that way – sorry to anyone hoping for it to be UKUS._

_I also like the idea of England being the "Dominant bottom" – it might end up that way. To be frank, really, I think they'd swap every so often… Depends how they feel at the time, no? :'D._

_I'm not sure how exactly that bit will work – as I said, that bit isn't finalised in my head yet. But I'll try to satisfy both sides!_

_I went through the whole of Sonata Arctica's Reckoning Night – and I still can't find a suitable line for the title. "Am I imagining?", "Sometimes we break the unbreakable", "Breathing gets harder", "Hope the World forgets", "A heart made of real gold", "All those moments with you", and "The loneliest child alive" were quite good choices… I'm still looking!_

_I'll figure out later?_

_Ah! My friends have helped me pick… so, here it is:_

**Chapter 5 – The loneliest child alive**

It was undoubtedly quiet; the only sound that could be heard was the occasional mutter of nurses speaking to each other about medical things that Arthur had no idea what was being referred to, and the soft beautiful calling of the bird in the distance. Not a single person had visited him since Francis – and Clive had finally given up and went to do his duty after Arthur insisted. Arthur scoffed to himself, raising a cup to his lips.

He had been inside the ward for, how long was it? It was the evening of the sixth, and he had come just before midnight on the fourth. Already he was bored out of his mind.

Did no one else care that he was in Hospital? He had been sitting there with absolutely zero to do for hours and hours on end! There was nothing else to do but waste the day away by sleeping, which already he had gotten bored with, was awaiting him. He was still forced to wear the aggravating hospital gown, since no one bothered to drop off any clothes. No books were worth reading. No people came to talk to. Nothing...!

There was no justice at all.

Arthur tried his tea again; this time he finally pulled a marginally satisfied face as the nurse's had _finally_ proved him with a good concoction. He had ended up having to shout at them to pay attention to his demands. Tea was not, ever, supposed to be drunk through a pathetic little plastic or cardboard cup. It was something to be valued and enjoyed. It was so much blasphemy that he had to survive without a drink for such a long time. Blasphemy!

Maybe no one cared about him in the beginning. Even Toris and Feliks had gone away without even coming to see him at all, and they were the bloody ones who found him! It was absurd in so many degrees.

He was the Representative of England for her majesty's sake! England is one of the most influential countries in the whole world, where was the justice?!

Surely, someone belonging to the countries he had a seasonable alliance with – like Japan, or America – would have at least come to check that he was okay, right? How infuriating!

Maybe Francis had told them that he was fine, and that there was absolutely no need whatsoever to check. Was he terrifying or something? Did he bring nothing but hatred and anguish in everyone's hearts?! Why was there not a single person, damn it?!

Even the nurses didn't come very often at all. He had to press the little red button to get their attention so many times that he wouldn't have hoped to count. Though that was probably because he shouted at them, very strongly, about how disgraceful it was that he couldn't have a cup of black tea in a nice china cup.

He didn't regret that though. He'd rather silence than no tea whatsoever.

Hell, he'd rather die than not have tea.

The silence continued to echo through the empty hospital ward. All Arthur could hear were his own gulps as he drunk the tea, and even the annoyed heart captured within his chest – blood pumping away in his ears. He was getting excruciatingly tired of all the pathetic antics. He wanted sound.

Initially, Arthur had decided to sing. Nobody ever came to see him and to be frank; he cared nothing about what the other patients thought. He felt like he was going to go insane unless he heard a voice. It would have been good if he heard someone else complain. It would have been troublesome if he spoke to himself and was found. No – singing was the best alternative. If anyone heard him sing for himself, it was understandable. People sing to themselves all the time. It was okay.

The first thing that stroked Arthur's mind was that he knew nothing of any lyrics to songs, whatsoever. Amnesia does that to you - wipes away all the annoying little details. Just like a computer having its useless files deleted. He tried his mobile phone, which the doctor handed him so that he could try finding some nostalgia within it… but the only song in it was Amazing Grace, which for some reason he had as his ring tone. It was good, granted, but it didn't help his situation at all. He wouldn't be able to replicate the high tones.

There were some other things in his sound clips that he discovered – all of them were labelled "America is a git" and then a number. Why the hell did he do that? He wondered. He was initially taken back when it wasn't actually America's voice, but his own. America must have recorded it, and Arthur kept it – maybe because he was proud? Or just to have a reason to call America a git? That sounded possible. He really did sound like a total git.

"…Pub and go! Fish and chips!" He was surprised that he seemed so boisterous on the phone. 'America you four-eyed twat, put my bloody phone down before I call the police and claim you stole it'. 'If you shove that thing in my face again, I'll rip off Nan-freaking-tucket'. He never recognised until then that he was so abusive. Though it made sense - he seemed to be getting angry over everything. He was so easily irritated.

Of course, the fun of repeating one song again and again eventually faded. He really was easily irritated. The room ended up plunged into silence again.

Searching further into his phone, he realised that there was something incredibly odd. In his pictures, there were around one hundred and fifty pictures – just of him and one other person… someone who looked like they fit the American image. And in about only ten percent of them, Arthur was featured at all. The pictures were all of America posing. Doing some stupid and handsome smile, or trying to do a pout or whatever.

Arthur scoffed. Either America was a total egotistical maniac, or… no. No alternative. He was just egotistical. Why on earth was America on his phone so much?

Call logs – all America. Texts… all America again. Or at least the ones he kept.

Arthur sighed and tucked himself deep into his bed. It was uncomfortable for him to sleep with his skull faced directly upwards, since he usually rolled onto his side in the night – but by now he was getting used to it. He slowly stroked the white body of the bandage wrapped on his skull. It hurt dramatically less than before, though it still caused him to wince. At least he wasn't connected to the drip and the annoying machine that goes 'ping' anymore. It was good to have at least a little more freedom. But the doctors insisted on keeping him there for a while.

Alfred… He couldn't get that name out of his mind at all. That and the silence were driving him crazy. How he longed for them both to stop.

Arthur shivered and dragged his covers over his chest tightly. He still felt sensitive from where Francis had touched him; the trails of his fingers suddenly went cold and tingly as he remembered those snaking hands – and the soft advancement on Manchester. He winced. Of all stupid fears to have, why did he have to be afraid of people touching his, erm, ahem, n-nipples? He even was afraid of thinking of the bloody word. It was absurd.

It was after Francis had left and claimed that Arthur was in love with this Alfred git, that he realised just how much his body seemed to enjoy the feeling of hands larger than his pulling him close… and the hot breath speaking slowly into his ear. No woman would ever have tried to act so bold with him, or at least no woman he imagined he had met. His sexual history had been wiped away in his mind. Just like being a virgin again – pure; without any knowledge of how it felt to be so close to someone that you could taste it.

It was pathetic, wasn't it? His imagination in that department had turned irregularly vivid. Maybe Francis was right about him. He accepted the prospect so quickly.

Would the old Arthur – the _real_ Arthur – condone him now?

…Would Alfred?

Finally a voice interrupted his chaotic thoughts. It was about time. He was beginning to get himself distracted into a subject that he would rather not face. Some company was heading his way at last. Though the steps that they were taking were suspiciously fast paced and loud – as if they were… running? Arthur wrenched himself to an upright position as the door suddenly swung open with an excruciating creek.

"Arthur!"

Arthur looked at the man with a thoroughly unimpressed look plastered on his face – a thick furrowed brow expression, immediately filled with irritancy. He sighed as he noticed the infuriating heroic pose that Alfred performed as soon as he came through the door; with one arm leaned against the door, his legs configured into a cross, another hand on his hip, and the cheesiest grin Arthur could have hoped to imagine. He didn't quite realise how bothered by the man's purely stupid antics he would be until just then.

So, this absolute complete twat was America.

"Your hero has arrived!"

Several nurses rushed to the door's side, a pant exhilarated in their bodies – just as if they had been running for a long time. Arthur glanced quizzically at the American. He was absolutely soaked in water from head to toe. His dirty blond hair was literally dripping onto the floor, and the man had seemingly happily sacrificed the welfare of his clothing, which equally was trailing so long water that it seemed like his leg was leaking or something illogical like that. His cheeks were slightly flushed, but nothing in comparison to the nurses.

"I apologise Mr. Kirkland! We'll escort this boisterous man out immediately!"

"Aww c'mon! Is it just because I accidentally knocked over a few people and some expensive looking machinery on the way here?! I was in a rush!" The American argued critically, pulling a truly discontented face as he tried to reason against them escorting him out.

"Sir, you ran into two patients and a doctor that was due to perform an emergency surgery! And that equipment you knocked over cost almost five thousand quid!"

"Quid? What the heck is that?" The man scoffed, as if the slang term for the English currency was as unusual to him as a man speaking to the grim reaper. "Fairy money?"

"Sir, I must insist that yo-"

"Stop." Arthur interrupted. The nurses and the dirty blond haired man ceased their actions and turned quickly to him. It was pleasing… at least he had the authority in his voice to stop other people in their tracks. It was his ward after all – they had no right to disturb him whatsoever, and they all knew it.

"I'll pay for the equipment. Let him in." Arthur said stubbornly, turning his head away from the disgraceful scene and taking another sweet sip of the delicious dark amber nectar called Tea. The room befell with an instantaneous silence before quickly the American stumbled happily inside and the nurses deemed it time to leave. The infuriating dirty blond whisked over to Arthur's side, and pulled up a chair. Arthur eyed him suspiciously before returning his attention to the tea. He picked the same chair that Francis had before he begun touching him, and also the exact same place…

His heart was beating a little faster. He cursed it quickly underneath his breath. Was he scared or something else?

"Thanks for the save, Art!"

"Who the hell are you?!" Arthur retained his glance at the china cup, not moving a single eye to regard the moronic American. Of course, he knew who he was. How could he not with America's pathetic face plastered all the way around his mobile at every opportunity?! "I only said I would pay because you were all testing my patience."

"Oh shush Arthur. As if you don't know me! I'm the hero of the world; America!" The man smiled steadily, showing off that silly toothy grin again. Arthur's eyes hardly flicked over to look at him for a single second – thoroughly unimpressed so far. They sat in silence.

Ever since the man arrived, Arthur's head was beginning to split into two again. He was far too familiar, and not because of the static photographs frozen in his phone. Now that he was there, in front of him… Arthur didn't quite understand it. He felt a huge resentment towards the man suddenly weighing themselves down on his shoulders. He subconsciously was straining his shoulders so much that it was actually causing him significant noticeable pain.

That was nothing in comparison to the entirely maddening disheartened feeling possessing his heart. Ever since he first laid eyes on him, the first time since his incident at least, his heart had begun to go crazy. Arthur tried desperately to pay no attention to it, which in itself was an almost impossible task. It felt like fear more than anything else.

He felt far more isolated right there with his previous friend next to him than he had when he was all alone. He had no right at all to be scared. It was as if he expected the man to suddenly scold him or cause his life to suddenly be a misery. Arthur shot him a quick and devastating look before rapidly tearing his eyes away again. Why the hell was he acting just like a petrified child - all lonely and abused? Why the hell did he expect to feel crushed, just by being in the man's presence?

The image in his head had become clearer. The little faded ghostly face of the young smiling child returned, and once again transfigured into the body of the man stood in the dark cascading rain, of whom Arthur was pointing a gun at. The rain no longer fell straight through his face like a mirage, instead impacting clearly with his skin. His shocked and devastated eyes were beginning to haunt him. He looked so sweet and pitiful.

As if in unison with the Arthur he imagined in his vision, a sudden huge pang of guilt intoxicated the entirety of his body. He hated that pitiful face. He longed to remove it… to replace it with a smile again, with the whole intensity of his being. He tossed the gun to the side, and fell to the floor – tears flowing profusely. Idiot. As if he could have shot.

_He remembered the look as the American stared down at him, the same damned expression staying firm on his face while Arthur had fallen to the floor. 'You used… to be so big…'_

"Oh c'mon… I came all the way here, aren't you going to talk to me?" That same American moaned. Arthur snapped back into reality, with a few accelerated blinks. Though he was not in the past, his guilt remained.

"Aren't you supposed to be entertaining me here? Keep me company? So far you've just been a nuisance." Arthur growled, suppressing the remorse behind clenched teeth. He needed to stop going into day dreams and begin focusing.

"Ah. You may have lost your memory, but you're still the Arthur I know!

"What is that supposed to mean?!"

"You're just as grumpy as before. I'm glad."

"…You American git! Go drown or grow a brain!"

"Ha, ha – yep – you're definitely still him. How have you been Arthur?"

"What do you freaking think, you twat?! I've been sitting here bored for hours and hours on end, and then you waltz in with your pathetically overly annoying and hyper attitude and disrupt my concentration! My only other visitor was that French wine freak, and he-" Arthur stopped for a second, remembering those rough hands and grimaced slightly.

Arthur looked at the hands of the American. For some reason… he so craved for those hands to touch him as seductively as the Frenchman had. He could just imagine that gorgeous face coupled along with the satisfied Cheshire cat-like grin, moving in for the kiss.

He shook his head. What the hell was he thinking?

The initial fear had been replaced by something else, which was scaring him just as much.

"That… France… is he always a total pervert obsessed with sex and nothing else?" Arthur said; sipping his tea with a bitter expression kept firmly on his face.

"Ha. That's right. Did you remember that or-" He paused. Alfred pulled himself closer; becoming reasonably curious by the sudden subject that Arthur turned to. The man showed a concerned look, one that didn't go with his silly smirk at all. It was like he was a different person. His voice turned serious as he leaned in further, his brow slightly furrowed. "-He didn't pull a move on you, did he?"

"N-No! Nothing like that!" Arthur demanded stubbornly, and then reverted his eyes away from those of the excusing American. He was frustrated that the American had catch on with his concerns so quickly – he wasn't anywhere as stupid as he looked. He found himself having slightly more respect for the man behind the goofy smile on his beautiful lips. …'Beautiful lips'? What?! Stupid Francis! What kind of weird thoughts did he put into his head? And why the hell did the American care if Francis touched him anyway? It was his problem!

"You know Arthur, you're a bad liar."

"Shut up! He didn't do a thing to me!" Arthur looked to the tea cup discretely with anger, the last drop of the delicious nectar had already been drained; he had no more defences to fall behind while deliberately removing his gaze away from Alfred. He slammed his cup down on the miniature table that stayed dormant by his bedside, and promptly folded his arms.

"Ah! So that's what he meant by 'I did find out something new about L'Angleterre'!" Alfred suddenly seemed to twig; Arthur shot him a look of absolute devastation.

"W-What?! He told you about me?!" He panted almost breathlessly. It was bad enough for Francis to know of his 'impairment'… let alone the rest of the countries. Just what had the rowdy Frenchman discussed with everyone else? It was so absurd! If someone else knew about it… he'd be in ruins. He would be exploited so much. How could he have shown his weakness to the enemy, everyone else, so easily? He should have just gritted his teeth and ignored it. Ignore those… hands… stroking him… Arthur winced as he imagined it once again – and pulled the duvet higher over his body.

"Aha! So there _is_ something! What is it Arthur? C'mon! You can tell me!" Alfred demanded. Arthur gave him another 'If I could kill you with looks alone' expression, though the American continued to grin greedily at the prospect of finding out something new. If only Alfred's 'aura of seriousness' had prolonged when the subject strolled slightly away by Francis's partial sexual harassment and onto his problem instead.

"It's nothing! Shut up and go home!"

"Not until you tell me!" Alfred looked so happy, his expression was so goofy that it caused Arthur to titter; despite his will power pushing him strongly not to react. Arthur ran his finger around the rim of the little white china cup he suspended in his hands absently. Why did he have to find that stupid smile of his so adorable?

"…If I tell you, you will leave me alone, yes?" He said in a quiet voice.

"Whatever you want, Art." He replied. Arthur hated how obedient the American sounded, it seemed so unnatural. It was obvious that the American was lying… but… for once Arthur ignored the feeling of regret biting bitterly at him from the inside. If Francis knew about it… then… surely… the American wouldn't be anywhere more inappropriate, right?

He thoroughly disliked just how much he craved believing in Alfred and wished to trust him with his embarrassing secret. The beautiful mixture of various smiles he demonstrated was intoxicating. He craved to touch those lips.

And that was exactly why Arthur wished for Alfred to leave the most.

He was going to go insane. If only Francis had never hinted to him that there was a possibility that he was in love with a man. Ever since then, that seemed to be the only thing that his mind paid any clear attention to. Really! Did he do this in purpose to drive him absolutely crazy? He needed the American to get out, before he did something really, _really_, stupid.

"I'm… I mean, I have a phobia of people touching Manchester and York…" Arthur still refused to glance upwards and meet the eyes of his accompaniment. His cheeks had turned plush red. He tugged a little more on the bed sheets.

"Manchester and York…? But wher-" Alfred paused as he looked where Arthur was protecting himself and finally twigged. He suddenly burst out with laughter, much to the Englishman's sudden dismay.

"Stop laughing you imprudent twat!"

"Sorry Arthur… It's just… ha, ha… I never figured you would be so sensitive about your body."

"Well I am. So shut up and go away." Arthur glared at Alfred with the most deadly look that he could possibly give. If looks could kill, his fellow nation would have clonked out on the floor and left Arthur in peace a long time ago. "Get lost."

"No way!" Alfred pouted.

"You're an insufferable git! You said you'd go!" His blush continued. How dare that man show such an annoying face? It was so… fucking _hot_. Oh god. His very presence was pure torment. Arthur privately pleaded to himself in the solitude of his mind to ignore it. It was all that bloody molesting frog-faced git's fault that he was feeling so pathetically attracted to him.

Or was it really? While the rest of his memory died away with his old self, bled out of his mind and down the drain, he retained only the name 'Alfred'. Whoever that was, they were more important to him than anything. Maybe he made a bad decision when he told Toris and Feliks to never let him know about what happened? It was only to that one person that Arthur wanted to share his affection to. He shouldn't spill his feelings out on somebody random, or at least the man who sat in the chair besides him, when he obviously would be rejected.

Perhaps that was the real reason why he demanded immediately for Alfred to never see him; he spoke practically subconsciously. Francis had said that he and Alfred argued after he overheard something awful. Something that was enough for him to begin shedding tears in front of all the other countries. Maybe that was his rejection. Maybe he was upset because the man he loved would never love him back.

He really was lonely.

"You're all flustered, there's no way I'm going now when there's obviously something on your mind. Stop spacing out and tell me what's wrong? C'mon! Tell me Arthur!"

"There's nothing to tell! Er… that is… Oh damn it. Who cares?

America… have you ever been in love with someone… you can't ever have?"

Arthur confessed. For the first time, Arthur turned to face Alfred in the eyes. They were so good looking that he couldn't stand it, but he felt he needed to for the American to pay attention to him seriously again. That seemed to work. The American stopped in his tracks and stared back as if he was intoxicated.

"…Yes. I have."

-Or so he had muttered, retaining their eye contact. They remained there in silence indefinitely. Arthur folded first, tearing his eyes away and nibbling away on his lip while he desperately attempted to figure out the correct words.

"There's a person called Alfred... I don't know who the hell the man is, but one thing I know is that ever since the incident – he hasn't gotten out of his mind. I'm being driven crazy by it. I have no clue whoever he is, but, I…

I think… I'm in love with him."

More silence.

"…Is-Is that so?" Alfred suddenly got up. A fresh blush suddenly became evident against his flustered cheeks. He headed quickly to the door, as fast as he could, much to Arthur's dismay. His smile was replaced with the only frown that Arthur had seen outside of his small visions of memory. It was the same devastating expression. Arthur felt like he was staring directly into his memories. That same guilt ran heavily on his heart. It was that one air of emptiness that Arthur wished to eradicate completely the most.

A man with a personality and smile like his should never change. Unhappiness didn't suit him.

"Well, I'm off!"

"America? Where are you going?"

"I just suddenly remembered that I have to walk my brother to his hotel! Yeah! That's it! Bye England! I'll see you when you're better! Ha, ha, ha!" Alfred called out as he quickly rushed out of the door just as abruptly as he had entered. Arthur watched as the door slammed to a shut and once again he was plunging back into the irritating silence that he so loathed. For the first time… he called him England instead of Arthur.

What the heck was that about?! Arthur continued staring at the doorway where the American was only seconds previously. It was so easy to tell when the man was making up excuses – even he remembered nothing of the man's antics from before and yet could tell exactly what the man was trying to do immediately.

He was trying to run away, on purpose, because of his words. Arthur found himself beginning to shake with quaking fear.

It didn't take a genius to put 2 and 2 together. But in his ignorance, he remained clueless until just then. He was far too distracted in himself to realise…

How could he have been so blind?!

He just admitted, right there, in front of Alfred himself – that he loved him.

"Fuck". Arthur swore, eyes widening. His head blared out with a new aching pain, filling him with excruciation – just as if it was deliberately trying to spite him. Just like how he expected… Alfred had run. He must have so been shocked… his old friend accidentally confessing to him must have been the last thing he expected. How could he have been so stupid? It was love. Love! That was something that shouldn't have been admitted to anyone. Not everyone in the world was as open as Francis in their bid for romance. How could he have possibly thought it would be alright for him to tell someone else?

It was those beautiful eyes of his and that smile. There couldn't have been anything else. He wanted to trust Alfred so much, for absolutely no reason – and he ended up letting his guard down too far. What the hell would Alfred think now? He had effectively broken their friendship right there and then, without paying any attention at all. How could they ever see each other face to face without removing their glance, now?

It was awful. He… Alfred… He was so exasperated and breathless now that his sudden realisation completely knocked the wind out of his lungs. He was such a fool. How could he not have foreseen it?

Alfred may have rejected him before, and he rejected him again... Arthur stirred, embracing his new sense of absolute dread. And yet, he could not bring himself to regret telling him about his feelings. He finally didn't need to feel inappropriate for wanting the gorgeous firm hands of the American to touch him after all. He finally had a true face to attribute his affections to.

It didn't matter that Alfred didn't love him back. As long as he had someone who he accredited his heart to…

…He'd always be contented.

But damn. It hurt, to know that the one who loved above anything cared nothing for you in return. He needed someone.

He didn't want to be lonely anymore.

He didn't want to listen to silence forever.

----

The rain cascaded heavily from the heavens above. Not a single building in the city could be seen in the distance through the thick droplets colliding with the ground after scarcely seconds of existence in their suicidal plummets, and even the pathway barely two feet in front were clouded by a dense shroud of fog, changing even familiar territory beyond rational recognition.

Yet, through the inhospitable rain that erupted chaotically from the skies as freely as love's blissful tears and through the fog that shadowed even the best of eyesight to mere uncongenial remnants; a single man travelled through the darkness, footsteps patting violently on the concrete ground at excelled pace, rushing across the streets without even having a purpose for each of his quickening steps.

His breath scattered from his lungs harshly as he ran, his body becoming tortured far beyond the man's limit; however the man ignored the desperate need for oxygen and rest against strain, continuing to run despite every fibre of his body screaming in pain. And of all, the most violently tortured was his exasperated heart:

It was beating far too fast… because…

…he loved him.

The American never wore a more wholesome and sincere smile on his face. Whatever tears shed his eyes and fell in unison with the cascading rain, they were because of joy… not sorrow. He never felt so alive. He never felt so unbelievably happy.

Arthur loved him.

…And he loved him back.

Alfred couldn't stand it. The handsome face he pulled when he was acting serious was so heart wrenchingly beautiful that his heart was beating so fast that he could hear it beating away in his chest. Arthur's stubborn green eyes, whimsically imbued with that adorable ferocity of his, were driving him crazy.

He needed to get out, quickly, so that he could calm down. Imagine that! He, the hero, becoming so overwhelmed with happiness that he could have burst!

Alfred slowed down and eventually stopped besides a lamp post to regain his breath.

Tomorrow… he needed to see Arthur again. Settle his damned nerves. Apologise for running away. Take him in his arms and give him the sweetest kiss he could muster. Because if he didn't, he would end up going crazy – he wanted Arthur so badly that he couldn't possibly think straight. Arthur would have no idea what hit him… Alfred imagined it so perfectly.

They would be together. …Just Arthur and him. The two of them…

He would bring a true smile to Arthur's face.

Arthur wouldn't have to be so lonely anymore.

----

**Eagle eyed viewers will notice that the beginning of America's bit was an almost exact echo of the first chapter =D!**

**Another note: America ran away because he needed to force himself to calm down.**

**If you think this is over soon; you are wrong. I have a big plan for the next few chapters.**

**In the next chapter; a kiss, and France's second move begins. Arthur is not going to go easily.**

**Seriously; any Sonata Arctica fans got any title suggestions?!**


	6. Guilty to a Crime Against Myself

_This is probably going to be quite a short chapter; only because I don't want it to last too long, since it's supposed to be one of those "=O!" pivotal events._

_Originally I planned to post this chapter and the next one in the same day, but I think that's going to end up being impossible – since I don't like stalling for quite a long time. If I wrote them both then posted, it would take until probably next Friday for the release… which I don't want to go – because hooray, it's exam week._

_I'm a little worried about this chapter, because it's the number one spanner in the works for America and England. _

_Now, back to the fiction:_

_I've been obsessed with one song constantly while writing… 'Run to You' by The Rasmus. I've decided that this song is the non-official theme song of Beyond the Pale xD._

**Chapter Six – Guilty to a Crime against Myself**

It was strange, wasn't it? The correlation between the people and the actual countries seemed to be absolutely uncanny, and this proved it. Several weird accidents had been occurring all around the United Kingdom; the most prominent of which was the quite devastating earth quake that hit the left upper regions of England on the late evening of the fourth of July. It was one of the strongest that England had in recorded history apparently.

Another weird event was the sudden heat wave that blasted through the western side of England, and in particular Manchester – where the temperature peaked at 35 degrees centigrade on the fifth.

The final one was the most concerning however, though it was quite easy to miss unless you gave it a second glance. For three days straight, uninterrupted, the midlands had been covered with absolutely terrible threatening thunder storms. It was true that the entirety of England was enclosed by rainclouds, but that one concentrated spot in the heart was the only to be struck by lightning at all… and one constant unending thunderstorm in the exact same spot was something that should have been considered impossible. But it happened.

The media obviously had gotten their hands on the information that Arthur Kirkland, a.k.a. England, was in hospital for head injuries (thankfully they hadn't been told about the Amnesia) after a while. Immediately they decided to make the connection between the man and the country, especially when it came to the earthquake in the north.

"For privacy reasons, we cannot mention which hospital Arthur Kirkland has been submitted to; however we are currently in the process of requesting an exclusive inside interview. The doctors have informed us that Arthur is stable and seems to be making a speedy recovery. Don't forget to email or text in with your opinions on this event! More on this story later, back to the studio."

Matthew torn his eyes away from the television suspended in the window of the shop and continued walking down the street towards the hospital. He shivered bitterly, wishing that the heat wave that was striking the western side of England would bother to come over to London – where it was pouring with rain and absolutely freezing. Why did British summers have to be so annoyingly unpredictable? When he breathed out, he was almost certain that he could see his breath solidify with frost in the air. Seriously…! The British have weird weather patterns.

Matthew reached the hospital; the news story still echoing in his mind. The news was being ridiculous of course. It was all a coincidence, he was certain of it. They didn't make it sound unbelievably convincing - unending rain, heat waves, and bizarre concentrated storms in England's heart? It didn't sound like Arthur… far too rash for the gentleman's conscience. It was silly…

The storm in his heart… that part in particular was the most ridiculous. Alfred was practically screaming of joy down the phone yesterday after he visited Arthur – he was so happy that Matthew found it hard to interpret that the hell Alfred was saying… but one part came very clearly. 'He said he loved me'. Matthew knew what had happened immediately. Surely, Arthur would have been happy by that, wouldn't he?

He was glad for his brother; extortionately so. Matthew had never mentioned it, but he was able to tell that Alfred was bitterly obsessed with Arthur's affections for a long time. Alfred was just like a little child; playing up constantly to gain the attentions of another. That always worked, Matthew smiled sweetly to himself, and Arthur had always given Alfred the attention he craved. Whether the attention was good or bad, they always ended up crossing each other's paths. They shared a devotion to each other from the very beginning. It was only a matter of time before they both realised that the devotion was, simply, love.

Matthew hugged the air absently, completely forgetting that he had left Kumajoru (or was it Kumajishi?) back at the hotel room. A hospital wouldn't be very impressed if he attempted to bring a polar bear in with him after all… not that they would have noticed him carrying it anyway. Inside the reception, Matthew spoke to a pretty young nurse… or at least he tried to. The nurse ended up walking straight past him and ignoring his total existence, until he literally leapt in her way. Even then, she only noticed him because she very almost tripped. No one ever noticed him…

He hadn't had any need to worry about those English drunkards the day before; although he was absolutely quivering with fear, had to walk straight in their way, accidentally bumped into one of the burliest and most terrifying men in the group, looked directly at his girlfriend, and knocked over someone's can of Carlsburg… not a single person reacted to his presence. He didn't know what was worse... getting beaten to a pulp, or being so completely ignored that he might as well not have existed.

No one ever noticed him. He wanted to get out of London as soon as possible, but that was impossible while Alfred continued to insist on staying. He couldn't have simply gotten the plane by his self. The last time he travelled alone, someone actually _sat_ on him without realising he was there. No one ever noticed him…

He began to ponder whether metal detectors would ignore his presence, and whether it was possible for him to get into an airport with some illegal items without getting caught at all. He wouldn't have been surprised. He sighed as he finished scaling the stairs to the second floor at the nurse's instructions (she initially said the third floor, but quickly changed her mind. He hoped he picked the right place… she didn't sound very convincing at all), and headed down the corridor.

It was frustrating… the drunkards of Great Britain, nurses, people at airports, other countries, even his own polar bear Kumajurou – all of them never paid any attention to him. He mumbled a few incoherent swear words to himself, cursing Alfred for being so damned bold in the world while he stayed forgotten… and pushed the door to Arthur's ward open after he gave a small (hardly audible) knock.

No one ever noticed him. But…

…_Arthur_ noticed him.

Matthew gave Arthur a sweet smile, to which the older nation gave a shocked frown. Arthur was sitting cross-legged in one of the chairs that surrounded his bedside; a book leaned open in his lap, propped open by spanned fingers, and what Matthew immediately interpreted as tea in an endearingly charming pink porcelain tea cup. Slammed his tea down, spilling a drop of the amber nectar, and discarded the book to the empty bed without any regard for its neatness. That was uncharacteristic of Arthur… the man was practically obsessed with making sure no books in his possession were bent in the slightest. 'Books should be appreciated to the every last word, and that means every page should be _flawless_!' Matthew nibbled his lip as he watched Arthur go back on his own demanding words. He must have been distracted.

Why? Did he remember him or something? …No. Whoever would remember him?

"You… You came back."

"What?" Matthew murmured as Arthur stepped several paces closer; his face had gone scarlet, flooding with unforeseen emotions. The Englishman was practically shaking, but a soft smile peaked at his lips. Matthew blinked as those earthly emerald green eyes shone with a weird happiness he had never seen brimming inside Arthur before.

"I thought you would never come back. You rejected me… didn't you?" Arthur muttered as he slowly approached his close proximity. Now both parties were shaking. Matthew continued to blink in shock. 'Rejected'? But he didn't do anything like that… What was Arthur talking about?

"Eh?"

"If you came back… that… that means…" Arthur stuttered, dropping his head and removed a bead of moisture dwelling in the corner of his eye. Arthur… was crying? Matthew watched in awe as more moisture built and finally a small glistening line ran down his cheeks. He cursed and wiped it away with his hand. "…Does that mean, you _do_ care, Alfred?"

It finally made sense. Arthur was mistaking him for his brother. It was an easy fault to make, wasn't it? They looked amazingly similar... people would not have been able to tell the difference between them; if it wasn't for his slightly longer hair and the polar bear he usually carried in his hands. He couldn't have blamed Arthur for not realising, especially when he was still suffering from Amnesia. But he did hate being mistaken for his brother. He loathed it… He raised his hands in defence when Arthur came even closer.

"Oh no – I'm n-"

Matthew's eyes widened as he felt Arthur's finger stroke his chin and quickly pull it to his level… and the soft lips of the Englishman brushed against his. He backed up against the closed door in shock as Arthur pulled him into a seductively hungry kiss. The door rattling and complaining as it took the force of the retreating Canadian and the lovesick Englishman pushed against it. Matthew stood limp from the astonishment, as Arthur desperately clung to him – his soft gentlemanly hands slipping around his back and brought him into a sweet, loving embrace. He watched Arthur's expression as he administered to him the most furious passion that the Englishman could muster. His face was embarrassed and red, and his closed eyes were erupting with floods of tears. Matthew lost himself, sold to those adoring tears. For a moment, he kissed back… tasting Arthur, submitting fervently, as their tongues sought each other. Arthur brought back his hands, stroking the side of his flushing red cheek slowly with one… while the other found itself rubbing hungrily through his hair.

Oh, Arthur _noticed_ him.

Arthur snapped his eyes open, and both parties pushed apart from each other. They panted for air simultaneously, exhausted from the seemingly never-ending kiss. Matthew stayed put, frozen in the position that Arthur forced him into against the door, paralysed by the poisonous thrill… while the British nation stumbled backwards, eyes as wide as the Canadian's when he felt Arthur's delicious lips for the first ever time…

…But the kiss wasn't for him.

It was for Alfred.

"You're… Y-You're not Alfred, are you?" Arthur stammered; backing up so much that his back collided with the metal frame of the bed several feet away. Matthew watched Arthur as he began shaking once again, out of fear more than overcome with ecstatic passion. Matthew didn't know what to say. He was too shocked, with both the sudden gesture and himself. Why did he have to begin kissing back? The taste of the Englishman lingered as a ghost on his lips; cold clinging to him now that it was over, buzzing with the persistent sensation. He shook his head.

"I'm his brother. Matthew… Canada." He said in an even quieter voice than usual, spoken as an almost inaudible whisper. The Englishman heard. How could he not? The room was plunged into the coldest of silences.

"F-Fuck." Arthur spoke bitterly. Both parties were so stunned that they could no longer move, and words were not coming to either's mind. They remained there for several minutes, without a single flinch or word spoken to break that bewildered stillness.

"I'm sorry." Arthur finally managed to plead. "That was supposed to be for Alfred… I'm sorry…"

Matthew bit his lip and merely nodded.

"Don't… Don't tell Alfred. _Please_…" Arthur really was pleading. Matthew watched quizzically. He had never seen Arthur show any unexpected weakness before… but then, he had never seen Arthur try being romantic at all. It was a territory he never crossed into until then. Matthew nodded obediently again.

Why… did that kiss have to be the most fantastic he had ever had? He couldn't tear his mind away from that beloved ferocity that Arthur imbued upon him. Matthew opened the door of the ward quickly, desperate to run away as quickly as possible. Arthur didn't tell him to wait, staying absolutely immobilised over in his spot. Matthew shot out of the room and quickly shut the door behind him – his thoughts finally becoming coherent again.

Arthur…_ARTHUR…_ kissed him. So passionately that he couldn't remove the sensations of it from his mind. That was one hell of a kiss.

Alfred was one hell of a lucky guy.

A sudden noise erupted behind the door; a chime from Arthur's mobile phone, no doubt. Amazing Grace echoed through the ward's fourth walls, and Matthew could hear the fumbles as the Englishman tried frantically to find it. The Canadian didn't know why he didn't move himself from the other side of the door, which he was propped up against only a few minutes previously - getting the God damned best kiss of his life. He was still frozen… but at least he didn't have to look at Arthur's terrified expression, all filled with the dregs of tears.

"…France?" Arthur muttered into the phone when the 'king of losing things' finally managed to find it in the secluded room. Matthew could tell from his strained voice that he was panicking; even more than he was. "Yes, I'm upset… I just did the most stupid thing in my life, how could I not be bloody upset by that?"

Matthew peered through the crack of the door. Arthur was pacing anxiously; his hand clutching the area of his injury. Matthew could hear the inaudible murmurs of the Frenchman on the other side of the phone, but he wasn't able to interpret what he was saying at all.

"God yes. I'll tell you what happened later. France… Francis… I need to get out of here. Quickly. I've _got_ to get out of here." Arthur muttered again and again. The voice on the other side lowered his volume, and Matthew could tell that the tone had significantly changed. "That's fine…Thank you. I'll be ready. It doesn't matter where you take me. Just get me out of here. And don't tell Alfred a thing.

What, Alfred? Alfred… he's going to hate me. I love him Francis. I can't handle him hating me. I can't handle this at all. Don't you dare tell him a thing! Just take me away, okay?! Yes, fine, just you and me. Anywhere, you french frog-faced git! I'll go anywhere…"

That.

That was not good.

What was Francis trying to do? Matthew couldn't believe that whatever Francis was planning would just be about simple, harmless comfort. If it was someone other than Arthur, maybe he could have believed him. But Matthew knew it. He grew up with Francis taking care of him, and he was smart enough to notice these things. He wanted Arthur… badly… for centuries and centuries on end. When it came to Arthur, Francis's mind never was innocent.

Matthew got up and ran. He couldn't take listening to Arthur foolishly getting himself intertwined with Francis for a single second longer. He snatched up his own mobile phone from his pocket and retreated into a men's toilet, before dialling the first number on his contact list. (Damn Alfred for having the first name to appear alphabetically – Alfred always loved it; bragging that he was 'Number 1'. That was infuriating). Matthew looked around to make sure that no one else was in the bathroom, before he retreated into a cubicle for a little more secluded privacy.

The echoes of the kiss still remained on his lips. Matthew brushed his finger along it before he finally heard his obnoxious brother's voice on the other end of the line.

"Mattie! How are you! You're lucky you caught me… I just got out of the shower. I've been getting ready for going to the hospital. Are you already there? I'll be there in a sec. I was going to stop off at McDonalds on the way though and get some hamburgers… you know they just call it 'burgers' here? That's weird isn't it? They also call trash cans 'bins' and sidewalk 'pavement'… how weird is that! The English are funny. I'll get you a happy meal if you want! So! Hi, are you okay? Why did you call me?"

Matthew stood, stunned that his brother could say all of that in practically one breath… but then, he could eat about fifteen burgers without pausing to breathe at all. "Forget the McDonalds Alfred. You need to get down here, _quickly_."

"Eh? What's with that stressed tone Mattie? You sound kind of upset. Arthur wasn't being a meanie, was he?" Alfred laughed heartily.

"No. It's something else…"

"Well?"

"He thought I was you… Matt bit his lip unhappily, nibbling away where it had swollen from the induced pressure. "…And he kissed me."

"What? He… thought you were me and kissed you? Wow. Never would have thought that Arty would be so bold. Kudos to him."

"You're not upset that he kissed me?"

"No. It was a mistake, wasn't it? I'll just punch him in the mouth later for you, okay? I'll be there in a second if you're that worried. But you'll be paying for my happy meal afterwards. I'm hungry!"

"Alfred… You might not be upset. But _he_ is." Matthew whispered confidentially into the phone. "England thinks you'll hate him. He asked France to come take him away. France will be here any moment. He asked him not to say a word. And France wants it to be just the two of them… That can't be good news. You've got to get here before he takes him away Alfred!" Matthew whispered aggressively down the phone, and though aggressively never is audible in his soft toned voice… by the sudden silence; it seemed that Alfred got the point.

"What's wrong with France being there?" Alfred said in the most annoyingly blissfully ignorantly innocent voice that Matthew had ever heard. Was he being serious?! Could anyone, _really_, be that stupid?

It was Alfred… so yes, yes they could. Matthew groaned.

"Alfred? Don't you get it? He's been trying to have England to himself for hundreds of years… and England's playing right into his hands. France will try something on him, I know it! If you don't get here soon, then you might lose him Alfred…!"

"…Ooh! Okay! …I'll be there! Matt, go back to the hotel and relax – alright? I'll handle it from here. I'm the hero, remember? I'm not going to let Arthur get into France's hands – okay?" Alfred said in the strongest voice he could muster, though Matthew could hear the strain in his voice – stopping himself from panicking. Matthew knew his brother's nervous habits so well. "If that French idiot thinks he can take Arthur from me just like that, he's got another bloody thing coming…!"

There was a click, and Alfred hung up. Matthew sighed. He left the cubicle and stared out of the frosted glass window… he could hear the pitter-patters of the rain becoming more intense by the second. Thunderstorms in the heart of England…? He strolled over to the window.

"Come on Alfred… You can do it…"

-----

**See? Told you it would be a reasonably short chapter!**

**So there it is.**

**The title could be applied to both Canada and England; since Canada accidentally kissed back, and England was a stupid git and not only kissed his love's brother, but also decided to go to the king of bloody sexual harassment for comfort. XD.**

**It was an honest mistake, right? You'd do it if you were upset… I know I would have xD…**

**When it came to: ' **"What's wrong with France being there?" '**… it took will power not to write Canada face-palming xD. You can almost hear the impact…**

**Not sure what people will think about the country/person link I did there; but it was a little idea I had, and I hinted about it a little before.**

**Next chapter… can America get to England before he stupidly goes off with France to God knows where?**

…**It's sad, but there are only theoretically two more chapters left.**

**(And then another chapter for smut, because everyone loves smut.)**

**Although; I have plans for a sequel when this is over – anyone fancy reading that? 8D. I'd give a synopsis, but it'll end up explaining what'll happen in the last chapters of this…**


	7. How to Cry Wolf

_Apologies guys – I forgot which reviews I've already replied to, because I'm a total stupid klutz like that. So if I didn't reply, I'm sorry!_

_I'm certain that I missed something that I really wanted to mention… But as a total idiot, I forgot what that is. Please excuse me for my failure…!_

**Chapter Seven – How to cry Wolf**

Those four hospital ward walls enclosed Alfred in the most joyous and yet incredibly bitter memory he had captured for centuries. Stained with white wash, the pores of the painted concrete kept within it the only indication of a man's love requited within his heart after his mind began torn in two. For those walls and Alfred's ears alone, Arthur admitted the feelings kept dwelling within him for hundreds of years on end. For Alfred, the space between those four walls was filled with life and happiness. The declaration of his real unity to the one he ended up devoting his heart to before he even realised.

So why, was the space between those four walls so vacant and unwelcoming now? Alfred's feelings sunk to an incomprehensible low as he laid his eyes on the interior of the ward on the second floor. Everything that filled that room with melodies of his happiness, singing those harmonious 'I love you' words repeatedly, no longer existed. The pink tea cup that was touched gratefully by those lips had gone. The sweet scent of that all spice aftershave that he was so addicted to had also gone. The buzzing atmosphere of saccharine tension from the occupier… that, too, was gone.

And so was Arthur.

…Just… gone.

Alfred stared into the empty room. That beloved atmosphere was replaced with one of solemnity and fear. Arthur's sheets had been replaced with a new, more formidable, pair. Even the layout of the chairs had been shuffled to a way that Alfred didn't feel comforted by at all. He was on edge. Initially, he thought he had gotten the wrong place… but sure enough – the window was in the same place, and so were all the little quirks scattered around that Alfred had noticed. Like the little crack in the utmost left corner, and the little scuff mark on the metal bed frame. They were all still there. But that was the limits of his recognition.

The truth dawned on him far too stubbornly. Arthur had gone with Francis. It was far too late for him to save his partner from the clutches of the French self proclaimed 'King of Love'. Alfred felt his lip quiver slightly as he wandered in the ward. He was acting as if someone had died… pacing impatiently around the room where the ghost of love attached him to those inhospitable cold metal chains, accounting every memory painful and gleeful with the stupid excuse for a gentleman that was Arthur.

He had never even kissed Arthur, nor told him that he loved him as well. Did he really have a right to pout and sob internally now that Arthur was in someone else's hands? He had failed. Yes. But did he even deserve to care?

If only he didn't say those horrific words back on his birthday. How he regretted it now, now that the only voice swarming his head was Arthur's. But then – if he never offended Arthur, how would he have realised that he wanted him? He probably wouldn't have fallen for him, repeating Arthur's words from the argument and replaying the image as the angry tears ran down his face, if he hadn't spoken out. Maybe Arthur would have lost his patience. But would he really have forgiven him for that?

It was simple. He fell in love with the victim through guilty and curious obsession. Who was at blame for that?

It didn't matter anyway. He failed. What kind of hero was he, if he couldn't even save the one in distress? Alfred muttered incoherent swears under his breath. His sadly wonderfully active imagination was already envisioning Arthur happily tucked in Francis's arms receiving comfort. How could he have been so blind? Matthew was right. Francis had always appeared inconveniently at the worst moments to steal Arthur's affections away.

That wine freak knew Arthur better than anyone. Alfred bit his lip absently as he glared at the empty bed. They both knew when Arthur was lying, they both knew when Arthur was tired or reaching his limit, they both knew when Arthur was acting strange. Yet it was him who had argued with Arthur bitterly despite of that, trying to protect his own damned pride – while Francis was the first to offer any comfort. Francis was always there to comfort Arthur when he was down.

Whenever Arthur came home after a long time off in the field; he regularly returned with new scars torn into his body, and another burden kept in his mind. Alfred couldn't remember a time when he wasn't watching from within the hallway while Arthur drunk himself to sleep. He never left the shadows to help Arthur get over his fears and forget. He was just too scared. He was timid like that when he was a kid. But he stayed there; listening to his drunken effective brother wishing the night and harmful memories away. He knew the man was in pain.

And that was where Francis defeated him entirely. They had always pretended to hate each other's guts; fighting on the battlefield, off the battlefield, generally trying purposely to cause each other misery. But when it came to something that Francis didn't cause; the Frenchman had always been there with him, wiping away those tears while whispering sweet nothings to soothe him. Francis knew exactly what to do to make Arthur stop frowning.

That was probably the real reason why he wanted to get away from Arthur in the first place. He was too jealous. He couldn't stand seeing Arthur upset, and not be able to do anything about it. He could never do comfort. Never…

…Never again.

He was the hero, damn it. And he wasn't going to let the pathetic villainous French wine twat win. The fight was not yet over… the final battle – the climax – still had to be fought.

But where the hell would they be?

-----

"A-America? Uhm, I'm sorry, but I can't stay on the phone for long… Russia's kind of irate this morning! Well, he is almost every morning… but he's particularly annoyed today." Toris groaned from behind the other line, his voice stuttering solemnly to the point that Alfred had to strain to understand.

"Ah, sorry for dragging you away from your fun then… But I kind of needed to talk to Russia… It's a matter of urgency!" Alfred muttered inarticulately. He hated resorting to drastic measures, but he _needed_ to know where to head. Francis had to be somewhere in London… otherwise he wouldn't have been able to get to Arthur before he did. That means checking Francis's place in Paris out was idiotic. Ivan and Francis were reasonable friends, and they were apparently supposed to spend time together that day… any lead will do… even if he was getting assistance from the king of the kolkhoz.

"Uh, uhm… I'll see if I can get him on the phone for you. I can't promise anything." Toris whispered into the handset before putting it down and heading off. Alfred could hear the slow shuffle of his feet as he headed over God knows where to find Ivan.

"R-Russia. America's on the phone, he wants to talk to you."

"Eeh?! Tell him to go away." Ivan moaned openly to Toris; his voice was tainted with the bites of a bad morning.

"He said it was urgent…"

There was a long silence, before Alfred could hear a loud whimper from the other side along with the most uncongenial of low grumbles. Finally another, rather grumpy sounding, shuffle could be heard – followed by Ivan's less than amused voice. Alfred flinched as if Ivan was holding his limps as a voodoo doll in his hands; ready to break them. Catching Ivan in a bad mood practically brought about the end of the world; his anger was nuclear when severely pushed.

"This _better_ be important, da?!" Ivan said bitterly. Alfred could imagine the horrific torturous frown written all across the Russian's face, along with Eduard, Raivis, and Toris's terrified expressions whimpering away in the background.

"Russia! Hey man, how's it been?" Alfred tried to say in the most collected voice possible. A tut on the other side of the phone could be heard along with impatient rapping fingers against cold metal… not a good sign. The taps against the metal became louder, as it sounded like the handset was being put down. "Wait! Wait Russia, don't hang up!"

"Give me one reason why I shouldn't."

"Because… uh…" Alfred stalled. The tapping became louder again. Desperate measures. "…France is going to sleep with England unless you help me!"

"Eh?! THAT'S why he cancelled?!" Ivan spat with a clear sadistic anger possessing his usually soft and tame voice… "Just so he could get laid?! Nyet!"

"Yeah, yeah! Look, Ivan, d'ya know where Francis is? He's in London somewhere, but I don't know where!" Alfred bit his lip, listening carefully for some kind of reaction – any reaction. He held his breath as Ivan inhaled to speak again.

"Nyet. Now if you're done, I'm hanging up."

There was a click on the other line, and the annoying beeps to indicate that the line cut out decided to show face. No goodbye or anything. When was that guy ever friendly? Alfred groaned – his best bet had failed him. Alfred glared suspiciously at the world surrounding him through the pay phone walls; as if he would find a clue just by chance. He was now only clutching at straws. An advert on one of the red London Double-decker buses gave him his next candidate to call. Alfred bashed in the keys, getting annoyed when they stuck (seriously, were the English totally obsessed with destroying public property with chewing gum or something?), and waited patiently for the next person to answer their phone.

"Moshi Moshi."

"Mushy mushy to you too Japan. Uhm… this might be a little bit random, but I'm trying to find France…" Alfred murmured into the clunky handset.

"France-san? I'm sorry, I haven't seen him since the meeting. And… I apologise for my outburst. It was inappropriate of me. I hope you'll forgive me. Sumimasen." Kiku said lightly to the handset. Alfred gave a small titter.

"Aww c'mon Jap! If you didn't say anything, then I probably still wouldn't have known that England got hurt! I owe you big time man. I'll buy you a drink when you next come to America!"

"…Eto… I'm sorry but I will have to respectfully decline. My body can't take it these days. Eto… if I may ask, why do you want to know where France-san is?"

"Because he's effectively kidnapped England from hospital – and I'm going to save England like the hero I am!" America grinned, punching the air out of determination (and mainly because it was a stubborn reflex action). "He's somewhere in London, but I've got no clue where!"

"If I may suggest, Germany-san was supposed to take the same aeroplane back with him… he may know."

"Alright! Thanks Japan! Like I said, I owe you one! I'll treat you to McDonalds or something when I next see ya!"

"No no tha-" Kiku stuttered before Alfred quickly hung up. He looked at the phone, as if it had just told him that he was going to die. He mumbled, before submitting to the American's idiocy. "T-That's… fine…"

Alfred tapped the keys again, inserting another weird coin into the machine, tapping his foot while he waited for Ludwig to answer. (What the hell was this 'pound' thing anyway? First the nurses talked about 'quid' and now the telephone asked for a pound… Arthur really used some weird fairy money. Dollars were way better! What's its colour anyway? It's neither gold nor yellow! What is it?!)

"Ciaaaaooooo~!" The sweet voice of the young hyperactive Italian echoed loudly into Ludwig's telephone.

"Italy? What are you doing answering Germany's phone?" Alfred queried for half a second before he remembered that Ludwig and Feliciano where practically joined at the hip.

"Ve! America! We're in bed together and I was closest to the phone so I picked it u-"

"ITALY!" Ludwig's suitably aggressive morning voice could be heard from besides him. There was a thud, followed by more of Feliciano's immature cries.

"Ahhhh! Germany just shouted at me and kicked me off the bed… He looks really annoyed…!"

"Italy, give me my phone!" Another scuffle and the phone entered Ludwig's hands. "Sorry. Yes, what is it about America?"

"You and Italy sleep together?" Alfred teased, pleased as Ludwig gave a disapproving grumble. Feliciano complained openly in the background.

"No. He slips in when I'm not paying attention. Now… why did you call?"

"Japan said you were supposed to take the same plane as France home. I kinda need to find France."

"Is this about England?" Ludwig queried; the American's silence told him everything he needed to know. "France stayed at his hotel; you know which one – yes? He and Russia stayed at the same hotel... so Russia would be your best bet. That's all I can do to help. Now, I have to go teach Italy some manners. Bye." The third click.

Alfred groaned. Back to the King of the Kolkhoz… who was probably writing the plans involving his eventual death as every moment passed. Alfred shuddered before entering the number in again. Ivan was his last chance… if he could get the room number, then maybe he would be able to get to Arthur before Francis did anything that the Englishman would regret. Alfred caught hold of his breath when he heard the phone get picked up again. For Arthur, he'd even deal with Ivan twice… Alfred sighed. He better be successful after all of this…

"No Poland, I don't care what shops you and that nurse from England decided to go visit yesterday! Nor how cool your hair looks when it's curly, okay? I'm already in trouble with Russia!" Toris said angrily.

"Uh, hi again Lithuania."

"Ah! A-America, sorry. Poland's been driving me crazy… I'm guessing you want R-Russia again?"

"If you can…" Alfred said guiltily; he knew that Toris was having a little bit of trouble over that side… but it was an emergency! The same small shuffles were audible, before another slightly louder pair of feet indicated someone returning.

"_Kolkolkol_…" groaned a demoniac ominous voice from the other side. Alfred jumped and dropped the phone; scrambling to catch it again.

"GAH! Russia! Stop! I need your help again!" Alfred panted with panic. The Russian on the other end scoffed.

"Why should I help you?"

"Look, one small thing and I won't bother you again for a whole month! I promise!"

"Make that a year, and you've got a deal – da? Disobey it and you'll become one with Mother Russia."

"D-Deal! Okay – what hotel number was France at?!"

"Ah. He was two rooms down from me – number 664." Ivan answered quickly. "There. Now see you in a year. Hopefully longer, da?"

Alfred heard Ivan promptly and moodily hanging up. Alfred took a huge breath of relief. Number 664? He moaned defiantly to himself. That was a lot of stairs for him to climb if the elevator was broken. But he was the hero… and Arthur was worth it. No stairs would be any obstacle! He was going to win, no matter what! Alfred punched the air again, getting himself pumped up before he adjusted his glasses, escaped from the phone booth, and ran off into the distance.

Instantaneously he became absolutely soaked by the gigantic rainy downpour affecting the entirety of London; his clothes clung irrationally to his skin, slowing him down somewhat. Alfred kept pushing through the cold rain cascading from the stormy skies suspended far above, ignoring the need to shiver or take any cover at all. The sky was practically black with thunder clouds. Most people had deserted the streets in favour for shelter within the buildings, or huddled over together under umbrellas to share body heat – though Alfred still was forced to fight his way through the hundreds civilians walking around the city without paying attention to anyone else's needs. No matter how many people Alfred almost tripped up, or bumped into, he wouldn't have forgiven himself if he stopped to apologise. He didn't care when adolescences turned back and swore at him, or when other adults gave an angry disapproving tut. He had to head forth; for the sake of the country that they were standing on. For Arthur.

For Arthur…

----

Disaster.

Alfred swore his heart had stopped beating and had turn into cold heavy stone. He backed away from the opened hotel room door; his face no longer was blessed with fresh health and dignity, turning whiter by each fleeting second until he was almost as white as an unspoilt page. His fingers were trembling significantly as he tried to organise words to come out of his mouth. Though he kept his tongue from moving… if he had the choice of spewing out a bunch of tongue tied twisted mess, or stay silent indefinitely… he would choose silent any day.

"And do you have a reason for disturbing _moi_, Amérique?" Francis said confidently; a smirk submitting from his lips as he looked the absolutely drenched nation with superior accusing eyes. There was nothing that Alfred craved more than to rip that satisfied smirk straight off the French nation's face. Francis licked his bottom lip slowly, just as if he was able to read Alfred's mind and tried deliberately to fill it with further negativity.

The European self proclaimed king of love and romance leaned against the golden door frame, compressing his bare skin. His torso and abdomen was entirely naked, while his lower half was covered only by a towel – leaving nothing much to be desired. He was still dripping wet from having a shower, and his cheeks were unusually red and flushed. His arms were folded in dominant defiance, and his expression was thoroughly unimpressed with the unnecessary disturbance. Alfred still couldn't speak. Francis gave him an unforgiving tut full of disapproval. Alfred couldn't tear his eyes away from the green military shirt that was slung over Francis's shoulders.

Arthur's green shirt… Francis was wearing it dominantly as if it was an accessory – flaunting his trophy out of spite.

…They couldn't have…

"Where is he?" Alfred said quickly, his words coming far faster than would be reasonably comprehendible… fuelled by the fear of the worse and his total shock. He couldn't have been too late. He just couldn't. Alfred bowed his head in submission; desperately trying to cling onto his breath, which decided to evacuate disastrously from his lungs. His muscles were causing him to almost writhe on the floor in pain, but he kept himself stable through pure strength of mind. He had run all the way from the phone booth; through the horrific formidable rain, through the cursing crowds, through at least fifteen streets, and up so many stairs that he would never have ever had the patience to count…

…He did all of that for nothing?!

He COULDN'T have been too late. Alfred shook his head, continuing in his attempts to deny what his mind so interpreted as the truth. He would never bring himself to accept it at all. He had failed… his heart continued to drag heavily and painfully within his chest – reverberating in dysfunctional irregular oscillations. What kind of hero fails? The hero never fails in a fairy tale or legend…! This wasn't a fairy tale. Reality bit harder than any irksome predatory jaws.

"Excusez-moi?" Francis's smirk grew, slowly slicing more metaphorical daggers into Alfred's already shredded chest.

"You heard me France!" Alfred growled in reply to the wolf's fearsome bite. "For fuck's sake! Can I just see him?!"

Francis frowned, an unusual glint possessed the light in his eyes; giving Francis the most villainous look of poison Alfred had ever witnessed on the European nation. He moved until he was blocking the entirety of the doorway, and laid his hand on the door – ready to shut it at any point at all, just in case the American decided to pull anything stupid and dangerous. His eyes narrowed.

"Non."

The door swung and Francis disappeared behind it, shutting the American out – alone and sodden with rain.

That would be, if Alfred didn't jump forwards just in time to wedge his foot in the door; taking the full blunt of Francis's insolence and silent rage all on one singular limp. Alfred swore loudly, but didn't dare move his foot at all. They exchanged a venomous glance; both people were pushing hard on the door at opposite ends, making it surprising that the wooden body didn't just give up and snap in half. Eventually Alfred won, slamming the door into the wall and shoving himself past and into the miniature corridor inside.

"Get out. Now Amérique!" Francis snapped angrily, holding the door open for his departure. It was obvious that Alfred was not, ever, going to leave just because Francis told him to – but he waited patiently regardless. The burning look in the Frenchman's eyes began to warn Alfred that if he didn't leave himself, Francis was going to take him out with force. Alfred scoffed, returning Francis his own superior glance. He was the one that had defeated Francis in strength when they tried to counteract each other with the door. With a sigh, Francis slammed the door shut and swore multiple times in his native language.

Without waiting for Francis to say another word, Alfred rushed into the main interior of the hotel room. Alfred chewed on his lip as he saw that the sheets of the bed had been disrupted, his stone cold heart becoming that little bit more heavy. He removed his imagination from the subject of what had happened within the space those new four walls. But… something was drastically amiss.

Where was Arthur?

Since the main room was empty - Alfred headed into the little bathroom en-suite, spinning around just to make absolutely certain that he hadn't missed a single thing in his search. He swiped past the shower curtain, opened the cupboards, and checked every absolutely conceivable place before pacing out again in an annoyed huff. Francis remained in the main room; standing with his arms crossed and Arthur's army shirt still hanging from his shoulders like a prize of war. The American stormed into his proximity with a severely not bemused expression on his face.

"Where. The. FUCK. Is. He?!" Alfred said slowly and clearly through gritted teeth, glaring at Francis with the full capacity of his wrath. Arthur was missing, yet Francis was in possession of his shirt… only negative conclusions were reached in his mind. Francis broke eye contact with the imprudent American and walked a few paces away.

"L'Angleterre is gone."

"What the hell do you mean by that, you French jerk!? If he's not with you, then where is he?!" Alfred snapped, ripping Texas off from its perch on his nose and placing it down on a nearby polished table. Francis eyed the pair of glasses with a bitter curiosity, though returned his accusing glance back to Alfred soon after.

"Why did you come here?" He said in a quiet, less hostile tone of voice. That only infuriated Alfred more. It wasn't as if his reasoning was not obvious. Anybody would have grasped his motive immediately from the very second that Alfred mentioned Arthur's name.

"Why? Because Canada told me that England came to you! Was he wrong?!" Alfred took a step closer, agonised by the Frenchman's sudden soft tone. Every single second that he spent alone with Francis was making him become more and more on edge. His beautiful blue eyes fixated on his fellow nation, determination reflected within his pupils.

"Non! He wasn't wrong. I was with England – which is exactly why I'm going to say this…:

_Stay away from him, Alfred." _

The room plunged into a sudden inhospitable hush. Alfred stood, delayed in a frozen silence, trying to determine for himself why Francis would suddenly be so bold. Jealously obviously was a big factor, but truthfully – could that have been the only thing? Francis quirked his eyebrow at the stilled American, before obtaining a glass of red wine that was awaiting him on the same table that Alfred placed Texas upon. He took a quick sip, ignoring Alfred's reaction, as if his words were the most normal thing to ever be said.

"…What?"

"You've hurt him enough, Alfred. It's your fault that he had to be hospitalised. All of this is because you couldn't shut your All American mouth."

A fist flew directly at Francis's face and catching the Frenchman off-guard. He managed to dodge out of the punch's area of effect marginally, though split his wine in the process – red liquid splashing him in the face. The Frenchman gave a small tut, before placing the wine glass down and out of the way. He blocked the American's second attempt with his palm. He wiped the wine off his lips with a slow lick; thoroughly amusing himself with the livid expression that Alfred was displaying him.

"Say that again! Say it again Francis you fucking jerk!"

"Don't you get it? He ran to me because he thought you didn't care about him at all! And it's hard not to agree. You've never paid attention to his feelings, Amérique! I've always been there to comfort him whenever you caused him misery, and what did you ever do?! Nothing! _Rien!_ Who do you think comforted him after you decided to fight for independence? He loved you, and you completely ignored that… you're too spoilt!"

"…I…" Alfred stuttered. He released his fist from the Frenchman's tight grasp and backing off a few paces. Francis was correct – every single word reflected the worries that he had already brought himself to think of. He stared at the floor, once again turning into ice at Francis's words.

"Of course he came to me! Where else would he have run? The only thing Arthur needs now is some love, and you cannot give that to him! You're just too spoilt!"

"And you think you're any better? All you want is to sleep with him!"

"I'll have you know that it was _Arthur_ who came onto me tonight!" Francis spat back his retort, amusing himself once again as Alfred's face turned uncharacteristically pale. He reached for the half filled wine glass, and headed over to the kitchen area to fetch a refill. He flipped the cork that was resting on the top off, and slowly poured the red fluids into his eagerly awaiting cup.

"...Wait… _what?!"_

"See, you know nothing about him. As expected. …Wine?" Francis glanced back to Alfred, raising the bottle of wine so that he could see.

"No thanks." Alfred declined. "What do you mean by that Francis?!"

"He's the type to easily become carried away when he's upset. He was the one who kissed me first; so of course, I returned the favour. He clutches at love just like a child with candy floss – that's cotton candy. It's his fuel for comfort. That's why he needs me – because I'm the only person who can provide that for him. He kisses best when he's overcome with emotion; so hungry and passionate."

"You didn't… _you know_… did you?" Alfred muttered, adding a small embarrassed cough in attempts to hide his potential jealousy. The shirt hanging off of Francis's shoulder left nothing much to be desired, though Alfred bit his pride and asked regardless. He hoped his blush would be hidden within the dim light, though Francis's small smirk seemed to indicate otherwise.

"Hah. Non – I had his shirt off, but that was the extent of it. He left quickly afterwards." He swirled the wine around in the cup aimlessly; staring into it as if it was his medium to see into the past - an aid of remembrance.

"He left without taking his shirt? Where did he go?!" Alfred gulped as a lump clogged up his throat.

"No idea where or why – he had gone before I could say a single thing. He could be anywhere by now."

Alfred sighed. That was a very bad sign indeed. Arthur was lost to the streets of London…

"Alfred?" Francis took a large gulp of the wine. Alfred frowned; it was just like how Arthur acted whenever he tried to drink and forget – reflected in a completely different person. Francis gasped with approval. "I know it is useless for me to say 'stay away' again. But I'm going to give you a warning.

If you _ever_ do something to hurt Arthur, you know exactly who he's going to come to for comfort. And next time, he's mine – permanently.

Put simply for your inferior mind to handle; break his heart, and I'll be breaking his hips – if you get my innuendo."

Francis slowly consumed the rest of his glass of wine within seconds. Alfred stayed uneasy. He had bad experiences with people when they got drunk in the past, though Francis still seemed reasonably sober. Alfred bit his lip. He didn't know whether he could completely comply with Francis's request (or was it a threat?). Francis only wished for Arthur's happiness, it seemed… something that Alfred had never expected Arthur's rival to announce. He nodded regardless.

"Understood."

"Oh; and if you need some tips on driving him wild, you know who to come to. I'm not inexperienced, especially when it comes to L'Angleterre".

"Wait; what is that supposed to mean?"

"He's not exactly a virgin you know Alfred. I've 'comforted' him before." Francis smirked thoroughly, staring into the empty glass again as if he could see images of the past reflecting back at him. Alfred blinked out of shock.

"You didn't know about the 'Manchester and York' thing though…!" Alfred pointed an excusing finger at Francis, while the latter poured another drink.

"Never had his shirt off before – he was always protective of that. The 'new and improved' Arthur has let his guard down it seems. Oh well. It's not like he'll remember us in bed together anyway. The man might as well be a virgin again. He's all yours for now.

_I'll be looking forward to when that changes_, Amerique." Francis flashed a sloppy half drunken grin. Alfred scoffed.

_As if I'll let that happen!_

"That won't ever occur! The only comfort he needs from now on is me! I'm his hero." Alfred pointed his thumb at himself and struck another quite cringe-worthy posture. Francis snorted with disapproving laughter, to which the American nation pouted. Francis inclined his head to the door, kindly suggesting that Alfred got the hell out of his hotel suite.

"You better go find him then, _hero_. Good luck. Oh – and take Arthur's God forsaken shirt. I don't have any need for it." He gave him another slurred smile, tossing Alfred the garment that previously hung over his shoulders. Alfred caught it perfectly and gave Francis a very corny wink.

"Thanks. You're not too bad a guy, ya know, when people get used to you, Francis! So don't mope about losing Arthur to yours truly, and go get yourself someone to settle down with – okay?! See ya! I'll find him, okay!"

Collecting his glasses from the table and fitting them back on - Alfred rushed outside, getting himself pumped up again, and slammed the door behind him. Francis groaned; rubbing his temples now that he had finally gotten rid of the American annoyance. Within moments, he found himself laughing heartily at Alfred's last statement.

"Find myself someone to settle down with? Really, Amérique?!" Francis tittered. His hotel suite's telephone rang.

"Salut? Ah! What? Non, he already left. Oui – Angleterre and Amérique are definitely smitten. So now you can concentrate on _moi_." Francis grinned. "… Do you think you can? Oui? I'll see you in ten minutes. I've already got the wine.

See you in a moment, Matthew."

There was a click, and the Canadian hung up. Francis laughed heartily again.

"Really Amérique, settle down indeed…"

---------

**There's gotta be a good ending, right? There's France and Canada's happy ending for you ;D.**

**I've noticed something… China is the only main character I haven't included at all in the whole series. I love him and all, but I never thought of ways to incorporate him. I'm sorry D:**

**I'll make sure he appears a lot in the sequel!**

**This is the penultimate chapter… except for le smut.**

**I was also thinking of making "Alternative" endings – anyone fancy seeing those?**

**About France and England sleeping together before… anyone fancy me writing a one shot for that bit?**

**Poor America won't be England's first (man), though he'd think he was XD… what a fun relationship.**

**Thanks for reading so far guys!**

**(Anyone notice that Russia's hotel room was either 666 or 662? XD. Har).**


	8. The Lasting Memory of the Ending Night

_Alrighty guys! This is the official last storyline chapter (excluding the scenes of an explicit nature that I'm planning to write next… fu fu)._

_The alternative endings will come out pretty randomly, but I'm definitely going to write them. So make sure you watch this space!_

_I'm also writing the France x England prelude for this to explain what France hinted about last chapter, and eventually I'll do the sequel to this too. Though the sequel may take a while to occur – I'm still brainstorming that one. If you wanna read them, then please Author Alert – though that's up to you!_

_Before the sequel comes out… I'm doing a fan fiction based on The Rasmus's Black Roses album. It's England x America, with a VERY seme UK… and the primary theme is total gripping angst. And including a LOT of smut! Fancy reading that, then once again – stick with me!_

_I'm kinda sad that this is pretty much over, but at least ya'll know I've got plans already for the future?_

_This is the first multiple chaptered fictions I've actually continued right to the end… Huzzah?!_

_Thank you for sticking with me guys!_

_Oh. And the person who gives the 50__th__ review gets a one-shot of their choice from me 8D! (I would have done this for 42, but that's a little too soon x3)._

**Chapter Eight – The lasting memory of the ending night**

If you were an Englishman, drunk on your own guilt and choking internally on the bitter strangling vines entangling you to a love that you think would never be returned, running away from your conscience and desperate to leave the night behind… where would you go?

Even if he would have had to search the entirety of London to find wherever Arthur the absolute, total, complete, useless, British TWAT had gone; Alfred knew he would try, no matter what. The damned Englishman was upset, and that alone was enough to keep Alfred willing to rush out into the inhospitable rain and freezing cold. It was ridiculous, wasn't it? It hadn't even been a week since Alfred realised that he was totally and undyingly smitten with the stubborn British gentleman… but he couldn't help but have his mind filled with concern.

Now that Alfred had the time to think about it; none of his feelings towards Arthur were really so sudden. Sure, he was shocked to discover that he had fallen incomprehensively in love with Arthur… but was it really so damned surprising? He had craved, practically lusted, to administer the same degree of comfort that Francis had provided him with in the past. Anything to make any sweet smile grace the Englishman's face… though nothing Alfred ever did made that smile appear. Even Francis had always failed in filling Arthur with undoubted happiness. The 'comfort' he provided would have only gave Arthur a temporary thrill - although Alfred didn't like imagining _that_ all the same.

Alfred shivered whenever he imagined Francis's hands slipping slowly and seductively down Arthur's deliciously milky pale skin and hands clutching ravenously at his thin hips. He was always secretly jealous of Francis's subtle advancements. Although none of those zealous threats held any weight until now. Now that he knew that Francis had swarmed Arthur with his butterfly kisses and thorough attention before, he couldn't help but feel even more threatened by it. It was just like denying a child some sweets.

He had never even kissed someone of the same sex before (except Canada, and that was always on the forehead… and anyway; they were brothers, so that absolutely did not count). Let alone slept with one… although he did spend his childhood in bed with Arthur, after he had a bad dream or thought he saw a ghost.

Arthur was always good at stilling his own fears, but he was so useless at comfort in return. Really – why did Arthur bother? How long had Arthur loved him anyway? They both loved each other as family for centuries… but when did they fall _in_ love?

They were in love with each other. Oh… how damned beautiful that sounded within his mind.

Alfred had stopped running a while ago; it was useless for him to continue rushing out into the terrestrial infamous London bad weather and continue speeding around aimlessly in the vague hope that he may catch even a little glimpse, one singular clue, to where Arthur may have headed off to. London was a big place… he could have escaped anywhere.

There was the subway system, one that was supposed to be similar to the hectic chaos within the underground network of New York; which could take him pretty much anywhere in the city in a matter of minutes… there was the reasonably legendary red double-decker buses that swarmed the city like gigantic beetles (though he was disappointed when he saw that they were not all doubles, and not all red. He probably died a little inside at that moment), and the many little dotted ants of the classical London cabby that could whisk him away in seconds.

Of course, all of those cost money… and as far as Alfred could tell, that heavy thing in the shirt pocket was Arthur's wallet. Alfred leaned against the doorway of a dark brick building that he decided to huddle underneath for shelter. He tugged closely on Arthur's shirt, holding the green fabric against his heart and intoxicating himself with the scents that reminded himself of his love alone – that All Spice aftershave (that Arthur seemed thoroughly addicted to) remained clinging stubbornly to his shirt as well as clearly engraved in Alfred's mind.

With the smell of sweet spices happily swarming his lungs, Alfred was suddenly inspired with a solution. He ignored the people staring at him for randomly shoving his nose in someone's shirt (a man's as well) when he was walking around fully clothed, and headed back out into the formidable rain… the dark pitter-patters colliding with his clothed skin at full speed, attempting to angrily slow the American down. But hell; he was America – no weather was going to stop him. Nuh-uh. No way.

He quickly found another phone booth, and happily shoved himself inside. He frowned again at the disgusting condition of the number pad keys, and the wasted packet of fries – they called them chips in England, how wacky is that? - thrown haphazardly in the corner (geez, someone could have ate that! It was a total waste of good food). Thanking the heavens that he had gloves that he could use to keep his hands away from touching the disgusting surface, Alfred keyed in the combination of Arthur's mobile phone – pushed in his last pound coin – and waited eagerly.

He could hear Amazing Grace nearby. Alfred swivelled around. It was close. Very close. Only one man would bother having Amazing Grace as his ringtone. Alfred lurched open the door of the phone booth cubicle, and stuck his head out directly into the rain. Arthur had to be close…! But where?!

Alfred looked around – not a single person in the horde of a crowd outside was holding a phone, nor looked like they were trying to ignore it. He couldn't see Arthur at all. Several people gave him an angry glare, and it took him a moment to finally figure out why. He groaned, heart turning to heavy stone once more, as he pulled out the mobile phone from another shirt pocket and switched the tune off.

Great! He had no way, whatsoever, to contact Arthur… he had just spent his last damned pound coin… and he still didn't have any leads at all.

What was he supposed to do?!

It took Alfred several moments, clutching onto the shirt's fabric, pulling it close to his heart and absorbing the delicious scents that reminded him of Arthur, to realise one of the most obvious solutions. Arthur lived in London… so logically he would go home – right? Right?!

Alfred left the phone booth and gladly embraced the cataclysmic clatter of the rain colliding with his skin, blocking its path directly to stab against the earth. It was raining so fast that the pressure hurt his body, especially as he began to run once more – rushing directly into the foggy darkness at the highest speed he could muster. It was hard to see, since the humidity of the air caused his glasses to fog up, but the pathway in front of him made sense. Even most of the people had finally given up; flocking like pigeons inside shops and buildings for shelter, or heading quickly home. They didn't matter anyway. Alfred took no more notice of them as he hurried through the streets. They didn't exist. They were just like blank ghosts.

It was just him and Arthur - the only people in the world.

It didn't take long for Alfred to get to the Englishman's home. The house was only a few moments away from the city centre; easily within walking distance, purely for convenience. Alfred gracefully thanked the heavens that it was not too far for his own legs to carry him. Desperately clutching to his breath, Alfred strolled up onto the doorway and rung the doorbell.

…No answer.

"Arthur, are you here?!"

Arthur wasn't there.

Either that, or Arthur was ignoring his existence. Alfred impatiently rung the doorbell again, and again and… eventually he gave up, resorting to bashing his fist against the door hoping that it would become so annoying that someone inside would take notice. His will ran out before anything happened. He gave in completely.

"Arthur!"

Alfred looked around. He was really considering using his brute strength to break the door down. There was enough of a run up for him to realistically do it; though it definitely would cause controversy with the neighbours... and there was a step before the door that Alfred could very easily imagine himself tripping on. Either do that, or find a hair slide or a paper clip or something and lock pick it – you know, like they do in all those cool television shows! But he didn't have a paper clip, and he wasn't exactly a woman… or Feliks.

A sudden thought came to Alfred again. People sometimes tried to hide a spare key just outside their house; right? Arthur always was the sort of person that would do that; the amount of times Arthur complained that he had lost his keys was extortionate. He really was the King of Losing things. Alfred sniggered to himself, remembering Arthur's cute flustered face. Arthur really was so adorable when he was frustrated… Alfred couldn't help but giggle (with manliness, _YEP, manliness_) at the memory.

Alfred glanced at his choices; a very large terracotta garden plant pot with nothing in it except the rain coming from the angry skies, and the welcome mat. Alfred liked to play games. 50/50… which one would it be? He was only allowed one choice! Choose incorrectly, and it would be the end of the world! His hero reputation was on the line! The world was at stake!

Alfred chose the plant pot. For a second, he wondered whether he should plunge his hand into the rainwater to find the key inside… surely it would be there! His heroic intuition was never wrong. Though of course, getting his hand unnecessarily wet was pretty damned idiotic. He instead picked the pot up and overturned it – watching the water slosh out, flooding the grass besides the walkway. Alfred pouted. No shining key came out.

End of the world! Boom!

So of course, disliking that he was seemingly defeated; Alfred decided to go check the grass to see if he had missed it. This, obviously, was a bad idea. Alfred lost his balance, slipping on the sodden grass and mud and fell backwards – landing very painfully with his back hitting the doorstep. Alfred groaned with pain and aggravation… until a silver glint caught his eye. He dismissed said pain and aggravation with a fulfilling smile. He wasn't wrong… he was looking in the wrong place. The spare key was underneath the pot! The world had not ended!

…Although the world might as well end, if he doesn't find Arthur soon. Alfred snatched the little silver house key and wretched himself back up to his feet. With haste, Alfred unlocked the door (thank God it fit) and pushed it open; welcoming himself inside the Englishman's home.

…Uninvited…

Alfred sniggered at the prospect. Sure, he had been inside Arthur's home uninvited before – when he just decided that he wanted to pay his lovely British best friend a visit. But that was always whenever Arthur was there at the same time; being there to at least open the door. He quickly shut that very door behind him and happily took a moment to absorb the atmosphere. Arthur's home always had a nice atmosphere.

There were dregs of water droplets on the floor that were obviously not caused by him, and the rug was slightly disturbed by wet and dirty shoes. The hallway and living room lights were on as well. Even if Arthur was not there now – he had been. Alfred sighed. If he had thought of this before, then would he have caught the boisterous Englishman? Although it wasn't absolutely certain yet that Arthur was not home.

"Arthur? Are you here?" Alfred called out randomly into the house's caverns. No answer.

Alfred ran his gloved fingers through his sodden wet hair; brushing the soft golden blond bristles out of his eyes. Since he was inside and within the warmth, he thought now would be a good time to get rid of Arthur's shirt and dry himself off. Alfred stripped himself of his famous and beloved bomber jacket and his shirt, leaving his upper body beautifully bare, tossing them onto Arthur's sofa. He won't really care, right? It's not like it was enough water to damage the fabric.

Alfred strolled over to the large fireplace; one of those really cool antique olden ones that health and safety go ape over. Real fire and everything! Alfred sat down in front of it – figuring that it would be better to think of his next move while being warmed up by those flames. Seriously; it was hard to imagine that it was technically summer. Alfred shivered, and soon found himself glazing happily into the flickering flames.

Alfred blinked. Was it just him, or was there something inside those flames?

He squinted. It looked like a photograph - a photograph of two people, standing side by side and looking all friendly. He tried to look closer, though the smoke from the flames was clinging heavily to his glasses and fogging them up even more. He wiped the condensation away with his finger before trying again. There was no doubt that one of the people in the photograph was Arthur. It broke his heart to see the flames lick aggressively away at Arthur's face and melt him away. The other person… well, there was no need for him to guess.

It was him.

Alfred watched at the flames licked away at the film, burning it away to embers. He couldn't take it anymore. Alfred knocked over the gate that was being used as a fire guard, distinguished the flames and took the tongs that Arthur used to add more coal inside… and pulled out the burning picture. He hastily blew away the flames that lingered to its body, and observed the photograph again.

Only half of the picture had been scolded by the heat. The side with him was absolutely fine but…

...Arthur's side had completely disintegrated to smithereens. Alfred watched as Arthur's smirking face, burnt to a singe, crumbled away into ash in his hand. Alfred flinched – taking a step backwards and dropped the picture. It was frightening. Just like an omen, or a relay of his worse fears. Arthur had just disintegrated. Just like that. Gone. That seriously freaked him out.

It was just like he had never existed.

Another thing caught Alfred's eye immediately afterwards. There was an envelope on the mantelpiece, held in a small silver stand. With a high degree of hesitation, Alfred eventually rushed over to the mantelpiece. Did Arthur leave it?! Arthur must have been the one to burn the photograph, after all, so who else could it have been?!

He bit his lip as he read the name on the surface of the carefully placed white envelope… _Alfred._ Arthur's sweet very so slightly scrawny handwriting was easily distinguishable. If he wasn't so scared by the burnt photograph, the ominous letter, and the fact that Arthur was still missing – he would probably have laughed about how Arthur wrote like a girl. He flipped it over, noticing that Arthur had even sealed it professionally with wax. Really – who does that nowadays? Arthur always remained cautiously in the past…

He slowly ripped away the wax tab, and withdrew the letter with a substantially shaking hand. He scolded himself for that in the safe sanctity of his mind. Hah… he was a hero. He shouldn't be so scared. He unfolded the letter, and read the contents. Eyes widened. His reassuring smile faded away completely.

------

_This is to Alfred. Not any other git. That means you Francis._

_Alfred..._

_It's probably useless leaving this; most likely, it'll never end up being found and stay still gathering dust for centuries. I wouldn't be surprised. It's not like you'd give a flying damn about me now that I've completely screwed up..._

_What I said that day, about me being in love with you... I meant every last damned word. I love you - so fucking much that I can bloody bear it. I'm so in love with you..._

_-Which is exactly why you will never see me again. I'm going to leave for your sake; because I love you so God damned much that I'd rather know that you're happy than care about my bloody idiotic self._

_I have no fucking clue what the old Arthur would have done... he obviously was able to cope for a damned lot longer. But for me, now, I can't hold myself back anymore. I've got to disappear, before I end up breaking you as well as me. I'll see you in another life. I won't ever darken your doorstep again._

_Goodbye, Alfred. I love you. Always will... and for that, I'm sorry._

_I'm so sorry._

_Arthur._

_-----_

Alfred glared at the note, reading it and re-reading it again. Was this what he thought it was? It kind of sounded like… a… suicide note or something? Arthur was going to kill himself?! Or just disappear?! Looking at the note, some of the ink was blotched – just like Arthur was crying pleadingly when he was writing. He shuddered, imagining Arthur's face tainted with melancholy.

Alfred couldn't stand it. What the hell was he supposed to do now? There were no answers at all. He effectively was gone forevermore. No matter what Arthur was thinking of doing, he would end up being too late by now to stop him. Where could the Englishman run to anyway? He had nowhere to go. What the hell was he supposed to do?!

The photograph on the floor caught his eye again; Alfred stared at it with widened eyes - fear and shock consuming him from the inside. It was just like in the photo… Arthur was gone, crumbling away in his hand and scattering as ash.

"F-Fuck… Arthur, you idiot…!" He buried his head in his hands, trying to hide the fact that tears were now beginning to erupt from the moistened corners of his eyes. The tears fell past his trembling fingers. He couldn't conceal his ashamed face. The face of a failure; he had let Arthur slip right out of his hands – all because he made a series of critical mistakes. He shouldn't have left Arthur to think that he didn't care. He was so stupid…!

"I love you… I _love_ you Arthur." Alfred pleaded, as if somehow his words would reach him. He crumpled the letter accidentally in his hand; clutching onto it as if holding onto a rope connected to the embodiment of the British nation - a rope connecting them together indefinitely. He didn't ever want to let go. He wasn't going to let Arthur go.

"Please… _please_ come back…! I _need_ you…!"

Wait. The photograph had only just been burnt, hadn't it? As if it was only just plunged into the fire by the time he arrived. Alfred unfolded the crushed letter again. The wet blotches, dregs of tears, had not completely dried yet. He knew what that meant. Arthur had only just left by the time he came. He was still likely to be out there, heading through the streets. Alfred blinked with slight scepticism. There was still time – he had longer legs than Arthur; he'd definitely be able to catch him if he hurried.

What the hell was he doing on the floor, moping and mourning his lost love – when Arthur was still out there?! Alfred leapt to his feet, ignored the tears that continued to flow submissively from his sweet blue eyes, rushed over to pick up his shirt and bomber jacket and ran out of the house at full speed – shoving his clothes on quickly as he went.

Where to run? If he made a single mistake, it would be too late. Should he go left or right? Go forth?! Alfred clutched the letter in his hand tightly, trying to absorb the will to make the correct decisions. The letter was his rope connecting him to Arthur… so he just needed to follow the invisible strings. He sighed, trusting everything to what his heart told him, and headed off swiftly down the street.

He would find him. No matter what… no matter how long it would take, no matter how much it hurt him to continue running. He would find him. He HAD to.

It was hard; pushing his body to the absolute limits through the dreadful rain and the seemingly abandoned streets, and then even further. After ten minutes of practically non-stop sprinting, desperately trying to find that idiot of an Englishman; his muscles were effectively screaming in agony. Alfred swore that he was going to push himself so far that he would begin suffocating on his restless breaths, or end up being sick. But he still ran. Because for Arthur, he'd do anything – he _needed_ to do anything.

…There was something there.

Alfred almost choked when he saw something fly past in the shadows. He came to an eventual stop, breathing incredibly heavily while he clung desperately to the air and his head spun dramatically. He looked around, trying to search for that strange shadow that he had just seen. It had looked humanoid… but cloaked. Was he going crazy? Alfred hyperventilated through fear and exhaustion, spinning around to look at the path behind him.

And that was when he saw it. It was something that could only be described as a skeleton wearing a cloak – a grim reaper. The most terrified being in the world, a bringer of both the stubborn darkness of a never-ending abyss and the horrific feeling of cold seeping away at your fingers and draining the remainder of life from your soul forever, the satanic embodiment of death itself, harbinger of all things black, terrible hearted, deceitful and evil, deliverer of fear…

…And it was strolling around London! Alfred cupped his hand to his mouth, struggling desperately to slow his breath just in case the creature noticed him. His efforts were too late. Eyes connected with… er… hollow sockets. Alfred trembled. He was going to die, right? He was staring a grim reaper right in the _face!_

The creature turned its head and continued off in another direction. It didn't seem fazed by him at all. Alfred gave the biggest sigh of relief he could have ever imagined. He wasn't the target. Though immediately after, a more terrifying thought occurred to him. What if the creature was after Arthur? Alfred paled.

He attempted to run again, turning his back away from where he saw that creature and continuing down the road he had chosen – but it was no use. His legs were too heavy for him to begin running again. It really was far too late. Oh god. Alfred clutched onto a wall of a building on a street corner, screaming at himself internally to get up and MOVE. He needed to find him! For him! But it was just… hopeless!

He couldn't keep the tears inside for a single second longer.

"!" He screamed at the top of his lungs, filling the nearby streets with his voice and his voice alone. He fell to his knees, clutching his teary face in his hands. It was just hopeless. Arthur was… gone.

Gone. Forever.

He glared out into the street, breath continuing to hyperventilate and his heart skipping cataclysmic beats. It was hopeless.

His heart oscillated violently as Alfred saw another person, deep within the body of the rain. Initially, he swore he had collapsed and entered a wondrous dream; but his muscles still ached defiantly and defeated the risk of it being in his imagination. The rain was falling so hard that it hurt like daggers as well. Alfred dragged himself up to his feet. The tears instantly stopped. He stood at the corner of the street, staring in absolute disbelief.

It was him. It was Arthur. Clinging onto a lamp post, and shuddering badly – looking down at the ground intently, his back facing away from Alfred. There was no mistaking it. It really was him.

The lamp post light was blinking sadistically; slowly dying away with loud fuzzes and small sparks flying. Every few seconds, Arthur would be plunged into darkness. That was heartbreaking within itself – but… whenever the light shone down upon him… he looked just like an angel - soaked in bright luminosity. His angel… Alfred forced himself forth, heading down the street and stopping ten metres or so away.

"Arthur?" Alfred spoke softly, hoping not to alarm the pitiful Englishman. Arthur turned around – his face was a terrified picture.

"Alfred…?!" Arthur gasped.

"I read your letter." Alfred gave Arthur a sweet smirk; lifting the little piece of crumpled paper in his hand to show the Englishman. He expected Arthur to rush to him and give him a well deserved kiss or something of the like – because he was such a cool hero. He hadn't failed after all; he was so happy. Although the smile faded away to black when he saw Arthur frown angrily – that was a reaction he didn't expect.

"…Have you come to taunt me about it?"

"What?" Alfred muttered in disbelief. Taunt him? What was Arthur talking about?

"You know I'm in love with you and that I'm going to leave… Why else would you follow me, if it isn't to bloody mock me?!" The Englishman snapped.

"Arthur…"

"I'm bloody in love with you, alright?! Don't make me repeat myself ever again! I'll be out of your life! So just ruddy leave me alone! I don't want your hatred or your pity! Go! JUST **GO**!" Arthur practically screamed at the foolish American; pointing in a random direction as he tried to force Alfred away. Alfred couldn't let himself ignore the pain reflected in those beautiful emerald eyes. It hurt them both, listening to their own words.

Alfred didn't move. Arthur gave a sad tut and instead turned to rush away himself. He needed to get away.

"Arthur! STOP!" Alfred shouted at the top of his lungs, closing the distance between them and grabbing Arthur's thin wrist. He wasn't going to stand for it anymore. How could he just try to wave him away like that? He had come so far, and he was not going to let Arthur escape so easily. The Englishman tried to back away, trembling somewhat as he did so, but was kept by Alfred's tight grasp. He was getting the wrong picture.

"…Wh-" Arthur looked down at his captive wrist, before glaring up at the American in the eyes.

"Don't you realise, Art?! I'm not here to mock you at all! I came because I care about you, damn it! Because I don't want you to disappear! I…" Alfred gasped. Arthur's emerald green eyes were so beautiful and intoxicating that it was hard for him so speak while absorbed in them. He sighed and let go of the Englishman's wrist, hoping that he wouldn't try leaving again.

"…Alfred…?" Arthur questioned quietly. Alfred shook his head; doesn't he get it at all?!

"I fucking love you too! I love you Arthur! Has that sunk in yet?!"

"You can't be…" Arthur backed away a pace, shaking his head in disbelief. They never broke eye contact for a single second. Alfred tried desperately to will Arthur into believing that he wasn't lying at all.

"Do you really want me to repeat that again? I LOVE YOU! So don't go! I need you, Arthur!"

"…This is a dream – isn't it?" Arthur smiled, his own tears mingling with the droplets of rain. He still couldn't deem a single word as truth.

"You're an idiot. Do you really think this could be a dream? Accept it, Arthur, I love you and you… you love me! It's a happy ending Arthur! Just like every good fairytale!" Alfred bought his hand up to caress the Englishman's soft cheek, and rubbed away the little tears Arthur was spilling – while failing to suppress his own.

"…I can't… this is… y-you, you really care?!" Their shining eyes interlocked; the blinking overhead gave the illusion of thunder illuminating their faces with light.

"I've been running all around London for you; the hospital, France's hotel, your house… hell, I bloody even talked to Russia… TWICE… for you!"

"What's wrong with this 'Russia' guy?"

"Er… You'll see… But anyway! If you call this a fucking dream again or question that I care about you, I'm going to go crazy on your ass! I'm not kidding Arthur!"

"Alfred, I… I'm sorry."

"Damned right you better be sorry! You know how much I've cried over you today? I thought you were going to kill yourself or do something just as silly as that!"

"I'm sorry!" Arthur repeated, and Alfred gave a heavy sigh. How many times was he going to hear Arthur say that? It was really ludicrous. They bumped their foreheads together, and stared longingly at each other's lips. Alfred couldn't suppress his awkward laughter as a certain thought crossed his mind. Arthur tittered to himself, and leaned in for their long awaited kiss…

…Instead he got punched in the face. Arthur stumbled backwards and held his fingers to his mouth in shock; if his back hadn't hit the lamp post then he would have fallen over – sprawled on the ground. Alfred withdrew his fist and gave a small smirk.

"OUCH! WHAT THE BLOODY HELL WAS THAT FOR?!" Arthur called up to the American, who had strolled slowly back over to his side and stood ominously above him. The lamp post light blinked for the last time, before it tragically gave up living – plunging both of them into almost total darkness.

"That one was for kissing Matthew before you kissed me!" Alfred teased. He had kept his promise to his little twin brother; just like he said he would. The quite frightened eyes that Arthur glared up to him with were… just freaking adorable. Alfred sighed; waited for Arthur to get back up to his feet… and then move to slap him across the cheek.

"And THAT one was for making me freaking worried!" Alfred growled. Both the men's tears had dried out, though the cascading rains made it look like they were both welling up. Arthur pressed a weak hand against his cheek; that frightened expression had not left him at all. Alfred gave a guilty smile and removed his glasses, shoving Texas in his bomber jacket pocket.

He reached his hand out for Arthur to take. The Englishman hesitated; as if he expected Alfred to strike him again. He looked back up to Alfred again – and the American pouted with an expression of loving sympathy. Arthur gave another disapproving tut and grabbed his hand. Alfred yanked the British gentleman up – far too strongly. Arthur not only got dragged to his feet, but also pulled against the American's body. Alfred smirked. They were exactly where they wanted to be.

He ran a finger up Arthur's chin slowly, and encouraged the Englishman closer. Both men glanced hungrily at each other's lips.

"And _this_ one… This one is just for us." Alfred whispered quietly in Arthur's ear.

They both immediately lost the rest of their patience; they pulled one another even closer to their bodies, and their lips softly collided in a passionate explosion of pure desire. Barely a second had passed the first touch of their lips before they burst into an ardent embrace, tongues interwoven and delightfully tasting each other without any hesitation or boundaries. They battled defiantly and fervently for dominance – both sides refusing to submit. And both sides resisted the violent urge to moan delightfully with fulfilment. Until finally, Arthur broke free… struggling for breath after their, frankly, _electrifying_ 'first kiss'. Alfred gasped as well, licking the lingering satisfying taste of his partner off his lips.

"Hah… Ah… Alfred?" Arthur muttered, wiping his mouth and trying to hide his horrifically strong blush. Alfred couldn't help but grin at the red pigment of Arthur's skin. So fucking adorable… exactly why he loved him. He kept Arthur close, holding the Englishman's hips and stomach against his tightly. He wasn't going to let go of him again. The American leaned in and pressed a few butterfly kisses against Arthur's neck.

"Yes, Arthur_, 'mon amour'_?" Alfred sniggered, quoting French specifically so the Englishman would act all flustered again.

"Oh shut up you idiot. Listen… how did you find me?" Arthur glared at Alfred again with suspicious, trying to force an answer that Alfred didn't really know out of him.

"I was just randomly running around… why? Is this place important?" Alfred asked, looking around. It looked like just an ordinary street to him - nothing remarkable at all – just a few stray random brick buildings and a lamp post that no longer worked.

"…It's where I smashed my head." Arthur said solemnly, wiggling his way out of Alfred's pincer-like hold. He wandered over to a specific place and glanced down the street past Alfred, before facing straight down at a spot just in front of his feet. Alfred gave a seriously concerned expression when he saw that there were still actual signs of crimson blood lingering within the cracks of the concrete pavement. "I never knew I could possibly have that much blood in one measly body."

"Are you better now, Art? You remembered where you lived, so… do you remember everything?" Alfred asked, eagerly hopeful. The wound that Arthur received was tucked underneath a small white bandage, which was hardly conceivable under his hair. He was definitely in better condition now that the last time they crossed paths.

"No, you bloody idiot. Its amnesia – do you really think it'll be absolutely gone so quickly?!"

"Boo. I thought the influence of your loved one might, I dunno, cure it. Like in television shows and all that jazz!" Alfred grinned. All shows where Amnesia occurred, they always seemed to regain their memories in one flood after the one they loved kissed them. One of those 'hallelujah – I'm cured!' moments. He didn't restrict his pout; he honestly was disappointed that it didn't work in real life.

"Life isn't a television show! Gosh – why did I fall in love with you? Hah… I've remembered a little, but nothing too drastic. I still don't remember anyone other than you and France." Arthur sighed.

"I like it like that." Alfred turned his pout into that little childish grin that drove Arthur absolutely crazy.

"Mm?"

"I can introduce you to other people as 'my boyfriend' now, can't I?" Alfred grinned eagerly again, strolling back over to Arthur and pulling the Englishman into a tight bear hug. It sounded good. Arthur and Alfred… No; Alfred and Arthur! Together… just the two of them united.

"Oh shut up, you prat." Arthur growled, but ended with a smile. Alfred's heart skipped a beat in realisation. Arthur had smiled. Truly… not out of courtesy or comfort. He smiled for himself. Alfred felt more happy tears welling in the corners of his eyes, and quickly tugged the Englishman into another strong hug. He sniggered privately as he smelt the beautiful scent of that lovely spiced aftershave…

"Never...!" Alfred muttered, dragging Arthur into another kiss – slower and more romantically this time. It took a second for Alfred to realise that it had finally stopped raining for the first time since he arrived. …Skies finally clearing indefinitely. He smiled and couldn't suppress his laughter for a single second longer.

With the dregs of rain dispersing and Alfred's joyous laughter echoing the streets, Arthur grinned.

He was not ever going to be lonely for a single moment longer.

"Thank you."

(Beyond the Pale…………/End)

-----

***Cry*… I'm so happy with how the ending turned out.**

**So there's the story!**

**I stayed realistic – Arthur didn't regain his memory after everything. Because frankly, that would be lame…! And anyway; the sequel will have moments with Arthur re-discovering things about himself that he really didn't think existed. …Britannia angel anyone?!!!**

**Must explain with the bit where Alfred saw the grim reaper. If you've seen the anime episode 48 (that's the one, right?) where Arthur is in hospital after being injured *snigger, nostalgic to anyone?*… then you'll know that Alfred could see the grim reaper guy then. I merely integrated that into the story.**

**And hey – now you can look at that episode and think "OH GOD! IT'S **_**CLIVE**_**!"**

**Incidentally… Clive is the name of one of my friend's dads. She isn't very amused at that xD.**

**Now; smut chapter is next. FU FU… and alternative endings will ensue.**

**The other endings?**

**France's Ending**

**America's Bad Ending**

**Canada's Ending**

**(I had this idea based on Disgaea 2… where you have different endings depending on your game play).**

**Thank you for sticking with me till the effective end. Please look out for the eventual sequel, and the France x England prelude to this. The prelude will be posted as a separate story.**

**My next project will be a UKUS tragedy story (including lots and lots and lots of smut, as well as total freaking ANGST)… based on The Rasmus's songs: Ten black roses, Livin' in a world without you, Lost and Lonely, The Fight, Ghost of Love, and Live Forever… in that order. If you 1. Like a Seme England, and 2. Freaking love angst… you'll love what I have planned in my mind for this!**

**Thank you very much for reading.**

**Destiny-Shiva **

_**a.k.a. Sai**_

**(Oh. And the All Spice aftershave I keep mentioning… it's fecking GORGEOUS. So of course, Arthur gets to use it. Yes indeed. A fangirl can pamper, can't she?)**


	9. Never Forgotten Your Smile

As soon as they had gotten in through the door of Arthur's home and away from the preying eyes of the neighbours, Arthur and Alfred begun kissing each other hungrily again; unable to contain themselves from that sweet primal desire called Love. Within seconds of the door closing, Arthur had Alfred against the wall; swapping tastes of toothpaste and roughly clutching at his lover's hips, while Alfred's hands snaked down from clutching his abdomen to squeezing his soft behind strongly.

"Ahn…" Arthur muttered breathlessly into the kiss as Alfred coped a feel of his flesh. He immediately broke the kiss as punishment for making him shamefully moan; smirking happily at the unhappy pout that Alfred sent him in return. He trailed away, indicating for Alfred to remove his shoes (it was rude after all, walking around someone else's house with your shoes on) and carefully removed his own. Arthur invited Alfred into his living room, before stopping straight away in his tracks. Eyes widened at the state that it was left in…

"…I know you were upset and all that, but did you really have to make a bloody mess out of my living room?!" Arthur glared at Alfred irritably. For one – his carpet was covered with dirty footprints; that would take a lot of vigorous vacuuming to remove, which Arthur really didn't want to do. He decided that he would force Alfred to do it later out of guilt and courtesy. For two – the fireguard and tongs were randomly strewn on the floor, adding even _more_ mess to be vacuumed up. Oh yes, Alfred was one lucky guy. And for three – the burnt photograph still remained on the floor. Really! What if it created an ember?! And don't get him started on the abandoned, ripped apart envelope – or the wet spot on the sofa!

"Umm. Yes." Alfred nipped away at his lip; the way he always usually did when he was getting scolded.

Really; how did Alfred survive without him? He had no awareness or clout at all. The man was effectively a walking disaster hazard. It was a miracle that his own house was still bloody standing – and Americans often didn't use houses built with brick! Arthur shook his head and laughed to himself. How ridiculous.

"Do you want a drink or anything?" Arthur called back to the American while he strolled freely into his kitchen; acting just like any decent host should do. He immediately filled the kettle with water and flicked the on-switch, before withdrawing his good china set – the pricey little white and gold ones with the golden leaf floral pattern on the saucers.

Alfred gulped; he knew that Arthur was particularly fond of that set of china… only using it for special occasions. He also remembered what had happened when Alfred accidentally knocked over one of the little cups from that set and smashed it to little smithereens. Arthur refused to talk to him for a whole week, and then forced Alfred to go to China to find a duplicate… in the end; he had to practically beg Yao to custom make him one. Arthur was seriously unreasonable when it came to breaking his pride and joys.

"You probably don't ha-"

"Coffee? Yes – in fact I do. I remember buying some before your birthday… just in case you, er, came around." Arthur cleared his throat to stroll away from that particular subject. Both parties knew exactly what he was referring to regardless. Technically, it had worked. Alfred did come around – just a lot later than expected. Alfred happily came over to join his British boyfriend by the countertop, standing just behind Arthur and affectionately stroking the line of the smaller man's hips.

"Ah, so you've remembered that much already..." Alfred whispered into Arthur's ear, sending his hot breath down the Englishman's spine.

He could definitely hear Arthur's breath get caught, stunned by his hero's rather ominous presence. Success! Alfred went to kiss Arthur's ear, though the stubborn Brit squirmed quickly out of his grasp. The adorable flustered blush that drove Alfred crazy already was flushing the Englishman's cheeks.

"It's coming back, slowly, but it definitely is coming back. Er, how do you have it?" Arthur said almost breathlessly, trying to ignore the pathetic childish (and fucking sexy) antics of his partner. He internally cursed himself for getting so affected by Alfred's close proximity – but he was right there! Right behind him and stroking the side of his body…! Pressing particular areas so close that he could almost feel it! How could you not get flustered when the man you've wanted for centuries does something forward like that?!

"Two sugars and strong – I like it forceful and sweet" Alfred grinned, looking Arthur up and down as he spoke. Arthur tried and failed at paying no heed to Alfred, and found himself pretending to be very interested in the exact amounts of sugar that were being put into the cup; to the very last granule. The kettle gave a loud conclusive click.

"You know; if you drink this horrible stuff, I won't kiss you for the rest of the night. Disgusting substance… Tea is far more agreeable." Arthur said calmly, reaching over to pick the kettle up. A hand grasped his wrist, and the Englishman shot a look to his American lover. _His_ American lover…

"Pff. If you're going to be that stubborn, then I'd prefer not to drink it. I'd much rather drink you instead." Alfred tugged Arthur's wrist forcefully, and the Englishman fell straight into his chest. Arthur scoffed when he noticed the mischievous expression pert all across Alfred's eager face. What the hell was he talking about by _drinking_ him? Arthur blushed furiously; unable to drag his mind away from imagining particularly vivid sexual innuendos. What a farce!

"You will do nothing of the sort. _Behave_, Alfred." Arthur said slowly, attempting to drag both of their minds out of the metaphorical gutter. The sneaky smirk creeping up on Alfred's face didn't assist that situation at all. It was absolutely captivating to him – he could not help getting absorbed in the American's deep blue eyes underneath the glass bane of Texas. He was not only captured by the wrist, but emotionally through the American's extortionate good looks - captivated. "Now unhand me."

"Nope – I don't want to. I like having you here… _pressed" _Alfred dragged Arthur's body even closer until Arthur was practically lying completely against him. He grasped himself another handful of the Englishman's soft and impossibly sexy ass. Arthur struggled to suppress an excited whimper. "…up against me."

As Alfred leaned in for another delicious taste of the Englishman, Arthur managed to slip out of his hands once more. The American let a sigh spread from his lips, and fell back from his rather forward approach for now. The Brit strolled away, stumbling a little while drunk on love. It was almost impossible for him to act rational while Alfred was teasing and seducing him so easily with his body and devastatingly handsome smile.

"Now Alfred; I know it's common for people in places like New York to sleep with someone after their first date – but I assure you that is not the etiquette here in Great Britain!" Arthur tried to say stubbornly, though it was very hard for him to be taken seriously while he was practically panting for breath and trying desperately to contain his arousal. His point didn't abide well when all the Englishman wished to do was strip the American bare and do vigorous kinky things to him that would make a certain annoying Frenchman very proud indeed.

"We're not exactly strangers, so that first date 'malarkey' doesn't necessarily apply to us. And anyway…" Alfred gave a boisterous grin. It was impossible to disregard the hungry look in Arthur's beautiful emerald eyes. He walked back over to the Brit's side and laid his fingers on his chin – lifting it upwards easily, with no resistance at all. "…I don't think I can contain myself for much longer. You're just so fucking sexy, Art."

"Oh shut the fuck up."

They indulged themselves in another sweet kiss; fervently battling for dominance and neither submitting. Within hardly a second, Alfred had Arthur against the kitchen wall; his leg propping in between Arthur's thighs, pressing in intimate places, and making it practically impossible for Arthur to squirm away. This time, however, Arthur happily stayed put in Alfred's eager hands; unable to wish being released from the hawk's claws. He wrapped his hands around Alfred's neck, ravenously running his fingers through his partner's hair and encouraging him to push harder- lips and tongues furiously tasting each other and refusing to give in to want of breath.

They tore away simultaneously, both of them desperately gasping for breath; their faces red from the lack of oxygen reaching their lungs. Arthur slid down the wall a few inches, panting for breath so badly that he had to cup his mouth to stop himself from making any terribly not so gentlemanly noises. Alfred took several steps backwards while staggering – all of the blood rushing to his head and bestowing him with dizzy ecstasy.

"…I'm going to have a shower…" Arthur managed to wheeze through his frequent gathering breaths. "…I'll be back in ten minutes or so. Do not, I repeat, do NOT touch anything while I'm gone…hah… alright, Alfred?"

"Are you sure you don't want me to join you?" Alfred smirked; he was much quicker to regain his breath, but he still couldn't conceal his exasperation. Arthur shot him a deadly look, one that basically said 'You dare try that, and I'll snap it off'. Alfred's heart leapt. Arthur really had no clue just how God damned gorgeous he looked when he was trying to be threatening. If a certain fleeting thought hadn't crossed his mind, he would have continued pushing until Arthur submitted… however:

"Heh, fine – don't keep me too long. The dame in distress owes the hero his prize" Alfred teased. The look Arthur delivered him at that moment was purely priceless.

"You call me your 'dame in distress' again, bloody idiot, and I'll make sure that you'll be eating your disgusting hamburgers through a freaking tube!" Arthur growled and promptly left the American to get himself cleaned up. Alfred stayed still; waiting patiently until he could hear the sound of the shower's pressure pump and running water. As soon as he got his cue, he ran into the living room and withdrew Arthur's mobile phone from the pocket of the shirt he abandoned earlier. He flicked through the contacts until he managed to find one particular number, and dialled. It was troublesome to use Arthur's phone, but he couldn't remember mobile phone numbers off the top of his head for the life of him; and he left his own cell back at his hotel room. Alfred slunk back on Arthur's sofa and tapped his knee while impatiently waiting for his contact to answer.

----

"Salut?" A rather groggily sounding Frenchman answered the phone; his voice ever so slightly out of breath, like he was recovering from a particular vigorous activity. Alfred shook the images his mind cropped up out of his imagination. It was Francis after all – what else could he have expected? He decided not to let himself dwell on that.

"France! I just wanted to tell you that England's alright! I'm at his house now." Alfred said enthusiastically, emphasising the extent of his awesome good news. He laid down on the sofa and got himself comfortable. Arthur would probably complain about him having his feet up on the seats; but it just was more relaxing that way. Plus Arthur's angry face would probably make him have a fit of delight.

"Ah, that's good news mon cher!" Francis replied. There was some shuffling on the other side, and Alfred swore he heard another, very familiar, voice in the background.

"Who is it Francis?" The other voice said huskily.

"It's your brother."

"…Is that Matthew?!" Alfred practically shouted into the phone. What on earth where Francis and Matthew doing with each other, at this time of night? And why did they both sound so… so… exhausted?! Alfred shook his head. That wasn't important. It wasn't important. Nope. It was far too late for his sanity. His imagination had already very accurately filled in the blanks. Alfred frowned and begun to rap his fingers against his knee a little more aggressively. But…If he and Arthur were going down that route, then he couldn't really reject a similar relationship, right? But seriously – Francis and _Matthew_?! Alfred didn't even know that Matthew rolled that way. Though he _did_ help him with Arthur a lot…

"Er… yes, I went for your advice; but never mind that mon ami – back to you and Arthur. Tell me… did you…?"

"Yeah, we hooked up. We're an official couple now." Alfred tried to make is voice sound not awkward at all, to no true success. He'd deal with Matthew and Francis's personal antics later. Right then, it was about him and Arthur and no one else. He was never happier to utter those particular words. He was together with his British love. Success! A happy ending! He couldn't suppress his happy grin at all, but then – he didn't want to.

"No I meant, have you… how to put it politely – nailed him so hard that he screamed your name out and panted for more and more like the one hell of a sexy bitch he is, yet?" Francis coughed, trying to swerve the conversation onto that particular sensitive subject. Alfred's grin faded away, and turned into a flustered embarrassed frown. He should have known that Francis would have gotten straight to the hardcore bits… and of course, it would be Francis to put a thought like _that_ in his mind.

"…Ah… Actually, that was the real reason I called you. You, umm, mentioned 'tips'?" Alfred uttered into Arthur's mobile phone slightly breathlessly; vivid pictures in his mind decided to go wild again, just to drive him particularly crazy.

"Ohoho? I'm assuming that you've managed to get away from L'Angleterre for a while, otherwise you wouldn't ask… how long do we have? It will take a while to 'educate' a beginner like you, mon ami." Francis snuffled; obviously pleased that a certain 'Amerique' had come to him for his oh-so expert advice.

"He's in the shower – but we haven't got too long. Just give me the important stuff alright?" Alfred listened out, making sure that he could still hear the sounds of the shower pump spitting away. He could fill in most of the gaps himself (it wasn't exactly hard to guess what man on man action was supposed to contain)… Alfred gulped nervously. He wanted to, put it simply; screw the hell out of his handsome British boyfriend until he had an orgasm so hard that it would be like a fucking nuclear explosion. But he just wanted to make sure he did it right… Alfred shuffled a little on the sofa; he was getting somewhat aroused just imagining it.

"Mmhmm…! Oui. Where to start? Ah; let's start from the beginning…"

----

Arthur pulled the grey shirt over his freshly cleaned naked torso, shrugging it into place and hastily buttoning it from the top down. He glared pointedly at his self in the mirror, trying to interpret whether or not he looked suitable – though that was very hard, when it wasn't his job to tell whether he was vaguely sexy or not. Arthur sighed, figuring that 'it'll do'. He wasn't exactly the most confident person when it came onto his looks. He thought he looked reasonable – decent enough, he was a gentleman after all – but nothing too remarkable. He expelled another breath. He had managed to pull one of the sexiest men that he had ever come across… so obviously there was _something_ that he was doing right.

"You look _fine_, Arthur" called a certain American's voice. Arthur turned around to see that very man leaning against the door, staring him up and down with a Cheshire cat grin pert on his devilishly handsome face. Usually when someone emphasises the word 'fine' when looking at their partner; they say it as more of an automatic whining response – like 'Honey, you look _fine_… now let's go get a hamburger'! But with this… the way Alfred emphasised 'fine' made Arthur want to storm over and take him right there on the damned spot.

"But did you have to get dressed? I was hoping you wouldn't give me the hassle." Alfred teased. "…It's a bother making you take it all off again, so I suppose I'll do that bit myself."

"I already said Alfred; I'm not going to be that easy." The Englishman retorted, filled with pride. Alfred gave a little tut, and sailed across the room to his lover – grabbing Arthur's cheeks and pulling him into another sweet sensuous kiss. The Brit submitted adoringly to his will, unable to bring himself to neither force the overly eager American off of him nor escape like usual. Clutching at Arthur's hands, Alfred guided the man over to his own bedside.

"Lies." Alfred grinned, pushing Arthur down onto the bed – affectionately idolising the deliciously sensitive face that cropped up on the flustered Englishman then. Arthur watched as his beautiful American boyfriend crawled onto the bed as well; climbing on top of Arthur's body with the English man trapped between his legs. Alfred pressed the Brit's chest down, to block any attempts of 'struggle' (though it was easy to tell that Arthur had no intention of moving at all), and seductively licked his lover's lower lip.

"Bloody Hell…" Arthur mouthed.

Alfred whipped off Texas and placed them on one of Arthur's bedside counters. He nudged extremely close to the Brit, almost impacting their bodies together but loitering almost tauntingly before his partner by barely a few millimetres. Alfred leaned over him, reaching for the warm touch of Arthur's hand, and brushed his fingers over in a slow but seductive stroke. It was truthful that Alfred was partially afraid; especially as the nerves were pulsing in his body and the adrenaline of their potential love was making his heart beat unsteadily faster and faster. His heart was oscillating so quickly that it could be seen beating through the movement of his chest… but of course, it was all for Arthur.

Arthur captivated him completely; seduced him again and again with those sensuously affectionate wide eyes. The gems of emerald really were Arthur's number one trump card. He thanked the heavens that he was short sighted, and could still see Arthur's bittersweet features in high definition without need for Texas. Alfred had desired to be reflected in those eyes for years… and the reflection he saw emphasised by the Brit's passionate blush, pleased him far more than he ever expected.

"Holy fuck, I love you…" Alfred whispered quite breathlessly into Arthur's ear. The latter shuddered, quietly muttering a similar response. They embraced with another short blissful kiss, and Alfred begun to work the magic that Francis had managed to teach him within the space of five minutes… while Arthur remained blissfully ignorant. The Englishman could do nothing but watch as Alfred bent down, holding Arthur by the sides of his stomach; and pressed his mouth against that troublesome grey shirt…

Arthur felt a sudden restriction lift him somewhat, and the American resurfaced with a sneaky smirk possessing the entirety of his face. Arthur looked down and instantly flushed scarlet. Oh god. He undid his button… with his bloody _teeth!_ Alfred glanced down as well; seeming extortionately happy by his handy work – as if he expected it to go much less smoothly. Arthur bent his head back, pressing into his small collection of pillows, trying to hide his pleasured blush from his partner. Taking the opportunity, Alfred descended upon him; delivering sweet airless butterfly kisses across the Englishman's throat.

"Ahn…" Arthur moaned with delight. Alfred continued his handy work; removing every single little button from their strangled prison using only his teeth and a skilful tongue – incredibly pleased at how much Francis's suggestion was working. Arthur tried to move; pretending to be displeased by Alfred's considerable dominance for the moment – though he kept the man easily enough in his grasp. Eventually the last button was 'pinged' off, and Alfred finally was able to lay his hands on Arthur's exposed abdomen.

"Wow…"

"…What do you mean by that, git?!" Arthur asked, his face turning even more red – assisted by something other than pleasure. Arthur glanced down at himself. Why did Alfred stop? There wasn't anything weird about him, right?! His self confidence was slowly taking a dip in an icy cold pool – filled with confidence corrosive acid…

"You know Art; I'm finding it hard to convince myself that this is reality. You've no idea how much I've wanted to take you for my own…" Alfred gave the older nation a small innocent smile; making Arthur lust him even more. He just had to be so adorable, didn't he? It was obvious torment… it felt like the heavens were mocking him, providing him with such an exquisite example of man. He felt the same as Alfred – unbelieving that such a stunner could belong to him, and him alone. Arthur sighed, shifting himself to a sitting up position and slowly brushing his hand upon the American's cheek.

"Of course I have a bloody idea – I've been in love with you for fucking centuries! I never expected this to actually happen… I've, ahem, imagined it. Though, I was always the one on top whenever I did…" Arthur confessed. Most of his memory of Alfred had returned after his accident, or at least… the agony of the years of unending wait had not disappeared entirely. The scarlet flustered blush deepened somewhat. Alfred didn't bother to restrain a laugh.

"Mm, I like that idea… being stripped totally naked by an overzealous British Gentleman. Let's give it a try, shall we?" He practically purred, ceasing Arthur's hands and guiding them to his torso. Arthur understood the message, and slipped the American's bomber jacket off and discarded it to the floor. The couple divulged into another series of kisses as Arthur removed the rest of the clothes keeping Alfred's gorgeous torso away from his grasp. They continued to embrace; half naked and furiously kissing, until finally Arthur pulled away with a concerning mumble.

"…Say… Alfred? Something's on my mind." Arthur sighed, withdrawing slightly away from the American. Alfred quirked an eyebrow; the Englishman couldn't be having second thoughts – could he? Alfred couldn't truly blame him if so; inside he was still wavering dramatically, feeling exceedingly nervous about what he was doing. They were pretty much two straight men who had fallen for each other. But he was in love. His body couldn't allow him to wait any longer. Alfred ran his nimble fingers through the sandy blond hair of his accomplice, framing the Brit's flushing face in his hands.

"What's wrong Art?" Alfred gave the Englishman the most reassuring look that he could muster. He wanted this badly… and he didn't want Arthur to turn back now. He wasn't going to allow him to brush him off. Regrettably, his mind admitted that he would be taking the Englishman that night; with or without consent. Arthur refused to lift his eyes, glaring possessively at the floor in his sudden embarrassment.

"…Who is going to be on the -err… b-bottom?" Arthur choked the words out; as if it was more difficult to speak that to swallow a thousand iron nails. Alfred couldn't help but release the laughter keeping welled up in his chest; though shut up as soon as the Englishman gave him the most deadly glare he had ever seen. Alfred blinked. Was Arthur being serious?

"Well, that's you obviously." Alfred grinned, showing his pearly white teeth. He was the manlier one (hey, Arthur liked embroidery and tea – while he liked awesome things like DIY and hamburgers. How on earth would Arthur have been the manlier one?), obviously… and he was the hero. Of course he was going to top! His fingers absently twirled Arthur's hair playfully, until the Brit slapped away his hand.

"Don't be absurd! I'm not going to be the freaking woman!" Arthur's voice sudden became far more elevated then Alfred had expected… it didn't take Alfred too much longer to divulge the truth. He looked up at the American with those gorgeously intoxicating green eyes; and Alfred could have sworn that Arthur was trembling slightly. Arthur really was scared. Alfred couldn't resist placing another reassuring kiss on his lover's lips, using his hands to make Arthur lie back down on the bed – though this time he was met with some resistance.

"Aww! Come on Arty; I'm already on top of you, and it'll be a bother to switch. I'd be better at it anyway, I'm that awesome. You're scared, right?" Alfred sighed, running his fingers down the Brit's cheek. The Brit was extremely hot against his fingers – embarrassed flushes suited Arthur incredibly. Alfred just couldn't bring himself to forget how adorable Arthur looked when he was self-conscious.

"…Of c-course I'm not scared!" Arthur flinched; moving to flick away the hand stroking him. Alfred gave a small tut and moved in to place more butterfly kisses on his beloved lover.

"You already know that I'm good at telling when you're lying, Art." He whispered into the Brit's ear. Arthur shuddered as the sensuously warm and ticklish breath ran down his neck and spine. After some strong hesitation; Arthur pushed the boisterous American away.

"I said I'm no-_fine_, I'm scared. I admit. I'm fucking petrified. Are you happy now?!" He snapped angrily. Alfred just didn't get it, did he? Neither of them was experienced, so they had no idea how it was supposed to go. What if he got, ahem, hurt? They were essentially guessing the details. Although Arthur didn't know that Alfred was acting under the advice of a certain overly sexual perverted Frenchman. Alfred smiled, dragging Arthur into a tight hug.

"Just relax okay? I'm not going to hurt you… alright? I won't let my beloved British boyfriend get hurt." Alfred kissed the older nation's nose, before slowly moving down to lay a soft kiss against his lips. When he felt Arthur begin to smile and relax within his arms, Alfred gave a sigh of relief. Arthur still didn't seem to be welcoming to the idea though; his body language had suddenly turned extremely reserved.

"…You can't blame me for being nervous. Neither of us has been with a man before…" Arthur said in blissful ignorance. It was Alfred's turn to blush, and the American let go of his partner.

"Ah – actually that's not true."

"What?! You've…?!" Arthur glared at Alfred, looking the American up and down. He was unfathomably gorgeous – even more so now that his shirts had been absolutely abandoned. Arthur nibbled his lip. There was no way that Alfred would have been spared all for him to take, but, he thought that Alfred had never been with a…

"No. Er… you have." As Alfred broke the news to the Englishman, Arthur was immediately inclined to disagree.

"…What on earth are you talking about?"

"You've slept with France." Alfred said awkwardly; remembering the very vivid visual images he received when he first found out that they had accompanied each other for a night before. The thoughts of Francis's Cheshire cat grin, filled with perverse thoughts and fuelled by a consciousness not belonging in his head, but vital regions… and Arthur's embarrassed and upset flushes… being together in one bed was defiantly distracting. It was difficult for Alfred to think that Arthur was not going to be his completely from the get go. Someone had already beaten him… and Francis of all people. He looked at Arthur's well kept body; a twinge of jealously taking him as he knew Francis had ceased him already.

Arthur grimaced, backing away and off of his bed – an incredibly furious expression appearing on his face. Alfred watched as Arthur turned another shade of blissful red, more prominently changing with anger rather than passion. Alfred instantly regretted telling Arthur the truth. He frowned and sat up on the Englishman's bedside, observing Arthur as he began pacing around the room in an agitated manner.

"What the hell did that French twat say to you about that? Listen to me Alfred – we only kissed. That was it! Don't pay attention to what he says!" Arthur's voice was beginning to sound scratchy and surprisingly high pitched – obviously affected by the thoughts of him being sold off to the Frenchman's grasp. He felt like squirming or shrieking with dislike. Why did he ever let the Frenchman touch him? Francis obviously had told Alfred a different story about that previous evening that the reality. Arthur growled internally. He knew Francis was an inconceivable pervert git. He couldn't deal with the thought of his body being violated. He froze as Alfred shook his head.

"I'm not talking about that. You won't remember it… but… you slept together just after I stopped being your colony." Alfred sighed. He hating admitting it, but there was the truth. The thought that Arthur had been taken by Francis after Alfred rebelled against him only pointed to one real conclusion. It was his fault. Another time where Francis provided better comfort than he did – but at least Alfred knew that it was not anything more than a one night stand. He had no idea how he would have reacted if he found out that Arthur and Francis had an actual relationship… he didn't have the best history when he became envious…

All he knew was that their love was different to what Francis did to, _with_, Arthur. Love was deeper than just one accidental distressed night of passion. Alfred convinced himself of those conditions again. Arthur had never loved Francis… so it was okay. It was okay.

"…W-what…" Arthur muttered in shock. His body suddenly feeling seriously scorching with heat; remembering the line that Francis's hands took when the perverse man stroked him back in the hospital, and the last evening. Arthur chewed hard on his lip as he remembered what had happened after he was taken from the hospital. He almost let the Frenchman touch him again, while he still believed that Alfred would never love him in return. He remembered kissing Francis so desperately, practically crying with self-doubt. If he hadn't gotten cold feet and ran out, what would have happened then? There was an obvious answer to that question that Arthur refused to admit. Alfred certainly wouldn't have wanted… well… damaged goods. He really had been violated in the past. Was this always going to be his reaction? Going to Francis whenever he was upset and needed that feeling of being loved? Arthur grimaced. He found out something entirely new about his personality… but, it was relieving to know that he acted in the same way that the old Arthur would have; before that accident of his.

"Art? Are you okay?" Alfred finally spoke up, after the Englishman stayed standing in silence for a few excruciating minutes. The Englishman shook his head; dismissing his negative feelings rather than disagreeing with Alfred's concerned question. Arthur looked up and their eyes locked; beautiful delicate ocean blue complimenting deep emerald green. The older nation gave a little smirk, becoming immediately intoxicated again by Alfred's captivating eyes. He was undoubtedly captured by the American's charm. In one fell swoop, Arthur headed over to his lover and placed a passionate kiss against his lips; withdrawing before either side to deepen it to speak.

"…I'll be on the bottom. No complaints. Just fucking make love to me already Alfred."

"You're eager all of the sudden." Alfred grinned once more. His beloved boyfriend finally coming around and administering him his well needed permission. It was good timing… Alfred was just considering pouncing on Arthur regardless. They couldn't take the thought of ignoring each other for a second longer.

"Alfred… I've loved you for years and have ruddy dreamed about being with you – I think I'm allowed to be damned eager. Just take me now, you damned kinky git." Arthur smiled; making sure that the American knew that he was being serious. He wasn't going to withdraw again. The man he loved was waiting for him; and personally, Arthur thought _he_ had waited long enough – he loved Alfred for centuries after all. He wasn't going to let a stupid thing like the hands of an overly zealous Frenchman ruin their evening. The night was just for them… Arthur and Alfred... they had hours to spend within each other's arms. He could get upset by his loss of that particular innocence another time.

Alfred pushed Arthur down on the bed, taking his position as the dominant player again. Francis had only explained what to do when it was that way around after all. Alfred was exceedingly glad that Arthur finally opened up to the prospect - although Arthur was still vastly suppressing his fear. But, he tried to dismiss it completely. Alfred had promised him that he wouldn't get hurt; and it was impossible not to believe the sweet face of the American stud.

Anyway; Arthur would kill him if he didn't keep his promise.

Alfred slowly ran a hand down the inner of Arthur's clothed thigh; edging closer to the Englishman's vital regions with every sly fleeting second. Arthur closed his eyes tightly, his legs squirming in the American's ticklish seductive grasp. Alfred forced his legs open, and his hands strolled further forwards; brushing exceedingly close to Arthur's manly hood. The Englishman groaned in want, tilting his head back – absolutely wishing that the American twat would just get on with it and stop his incessant mockery.

Alfred got the message immediately. He leant down, and unzipped the Englishman's trousers with merely his teeth – making sure to linger seductively close, spreading hot breath in the most desirable of places. Arthur flinched again, a breath passing from his lips in desperation. With a sly grin ceasing his face, Alfred stuck his fingers into the British Gentleman's clothes and stroked the skin just exposed before the rim of his underwear; Arthur whimpered as the cold hands touched him, tickling in places that Arthur wasn't even aware was sensitive to another's hand. Alfred grinned. Francis was right; teasing 'L'Angleterre' really _was_ fun. Arthur reacted strongly to the confines of another man's dominance, especially when it came to foreplay.

"Ah… for fucks sake Alfred, stop teasing me." The Brit gasped absolutely breathlessly. Alfred obliged, pushing his hand underneath Arthur's underwear and ran his fingers over the excited member – the American expressed a smile as he felt that Arthur was already moist with lustful want. He had felt his touches so strongly… he definitely was just magic. Arthur moaned as Alfred closed his hand around Arthur's dignity, delicately stroking his fingers up and down the tip to the hilt; pumping it while the Englishman arched his back in pleasure. With his spare hand, Alfred dragged down Arthur's trousers and underwear, discarded them to the gathering pile on the floor. Alfred lost his breath; captivated by the delicately delicious naked body of his lover.

Alfred found himself beginning to hyperventilate somewhat, desperately trying to cling to his breath. He could hardly wait to take Arthur for his own. He found himself gaping, entranced by the beautifully kept figure of the Englishman and his milky soft pallid skin tone. For an older man (though Arthur was technically only 23 in human years), Arthur was just… stunning – a reasonably thin frame with some muscle to contour the edges… just perfection in his eyes. Every angle looked even more appealing than the last. With excitement ceasing him, Alfred stroked his now bare inner thigh, enjoying how Arthur wriggled in protest underneath him; loving the dominance he was being handed so easily.

"A-Alfred…" Arthur whispered with pleasure.

"Shit Art; I never realised how fucking sexy you are…" Alfred ignored his self-restraint, and licked the contours of Arthur's upper leg, tasting the delicious tangs of Arthur's naked flesh; forcing his lover to gasp frantically again. He continued to pump the hard length on his hand, running his fingers down his member slowly at first, though soon began to pick up the pace. He stroked the underside particularly delicately, forcing a shiver to expel down the Englishman's spine. Arthur dug his fingers into his duvet, as if practically holding on for dear life as Alfred hands expertly fondled his manly hood. The Englishman looked down at the American vigorously nursing him through his arousal; eyes widening as he realised that Alfred was just about to…

"You aren't going to… ah-h…!"

A furious tongue teased Arthur again, running up and down his length in the most satisfying of places. Arthur began groaning almost non-stop with severe satisfaction. The breath of his companion trailed all across Arthur's cold skin, loins heating to burning degrees with passion. Alfred withdrew his tongue, and took him in his mouth; taking only the first few inches at first, gently sucking and tasting Arthur. The English gentleman writhed underneath Alfred's grasp, lurching in excited ecstasy and begun to mewl his name, no longer restraining the volume of his voice.

"Ahh…h! Alfred! Oh _fuck_…!"

Alfred took Arthur's energized words as a further invitation; gently sliding more of Arthur's mass into his mouth, deep-throating him. Arthur's hips moved subconsciously, allowing Alfred to take him more easily as he fondled Arthur within the confines of his mouth. That _tongue_…! Arthur's blush exceeded degrees that he thought was physically possible; slowly reaching the peaks of his pleasure. His back arched and he buried himself in his soft pillows as he felt Alfred's teeth teasing him, devilishly massaging him to his extremes. Just as pre-cum began to leak from the Englishman, the American finally withdrew from his act, leaving Arthur's hot moist flesh feeling baron; and both nations panted for their breath. Alfred smirked; Francis's teachings were already paying off.

"Arthur, are you ready?" Alfred glanced over at his lover, frowning slightly as Arthur mumbled a little with fear.

"…Ah… Yes, I'm ready. I've been ready forever." Arthur closed his eyes and raised his hands to his forehead and massaged his temples. Alfred ran his hands up the slim sides of Arthur's body and got himself in a better position. The Englishman was practically trembling, but still a small smile graced his lips. Alfred was looking to him so affectionately that he almost wanted to scream with happiness. He still couldn't bring himself to fully believe that the sweet American was in love with him, and he in return. Alfred laid his lips upon Arthur's; and the older nation leant forward, deepening the kiss and fumbling to strip the remainder of the American's clothing away. Together, they happily moaned in unison; hungry hands snaking all across each other's bare skin, groping one another's flesh with heated romance. Finally both men were entirely naked, preparing themselves for the main event.

"Art, you don't have any lubricant or anything – do you?" Alfred mumbled. He promised that he wouldn't hurt his beloved boyfriend, and he was determined to stick up to that promise. The Englishman sighed and shook his head.

"If I had that, which I doubt, I haven't remembered. That doesn't matter anyway. I don't want it. I want _you_, Alfred." Arthur said, running his fingers through Alfred's dirty blond hair; playing absently with the ahoge representing Nantucket. Alfred was taken aback by Arthur's sudden stubbornness. Francis hadn't explained what to do when they didn't…

"But Art, you'll be-"

"I don't care; listen Alfred, I want you – all of you. I want to feel you taking me…_again, and again, and again._ So stop worrying and make love to me! I love you Alfred." Arthur smiled, dragging Alfred down into another embrace; torso's delicately brushing together as they gave each other another chaste kiss. Alfred returned the smile, and stroked Arthur's hips, squeezing his flesh ravenously. Both of their heartbeats elevated with suspense. As Alfred slipped in a sly finger into Arthur's entrance, feeling the man's heat and muscles tightening at the foreign intrusion; Arthur moaned in both ecstasy and pain.

"Holy _fuck_…! Shit shit shit… I, ah, I didn't think it would hurt this… agh, much!" Arthur groaned. "Bloody hell, how many fingers did you…?"

"…Art, I've only just pushed in the tip…" Alfred confessed; Arthur shot him a look that told of nothing but devastation. He really didn't expect it to feel so difficult. A pang of guilt ceased the American as he looked at Arthur's face – the man was already threatening to fracture into hurtful tears. "It's alright Art, I'll stop! I'll…!"

"Don't you dare. Ahh… I… mmm… Don't you dare stop." Arthur moaned, a smile gracing his lips along with the slight tears of pain. Alfred blinked. Arthur was still depriving pleasure from the conquest, despite the shrill sting. The American smirked and pushed the rest of his finger inside the man's tight warmth; watching happily as Arthur arched back and groaned loudly. The Englishman was almost overflowing with emotions of physical anguish and want. Alfred wasted no more time; withdrawing slightly only to administer another finger, and then another – scissoring and stretching Arthur in preparation for his own mass.

Arthur closed his eyes tightly and licked his lips, seductively enjoying the feeling now that the initial waves of shock and pain had dimmed. His breathing had changed dramatically, and he was now whimpering in delight after every exhalation. Alfred withdrew his fingers, and prised Arthur's leg further apart positioning him perfectly to embed into his lover.

"This is it Art…"

"Aggh… ah, get o-on with it already." Arthur whispered breathlessly, opening one eye to regard the attractive American. Alfred leaned down to kiss him, ceasing Arthur's mouth with his tongue and battling once more for that dominance. Alfred ran his hands down to clutch Arthur's cute behind, making the Brit flinch a little with surprise. While Arthur was unsuspecting from his cheeky grope, Alfred pushed his own hard length into Arthur's entrance.

"My God…! _Mm_…! Art, you're – oh God – you're so, ah…"

The American groaned sensuously as Arthur's muscles contracted around him. Arthur wrapped his hands around Alfred, trying excruciatingly hard not to dig into Alfred with vicious nails as he clung. It was hard for Alfred not to ignore the sweet tears that were running down those scarlet red cheeks. Alfred kissed each little droplet away, while he grasped the Brit's hips; helping to impale himself within the other. Arthur bucked his hips, forcing his body to accept Alfred inside of him. He moaned as Alfred finally became fully sheathed, even more hot tears fled down his handsome face.

"Oh God Art… do you need a second?"

"A-Ah… No… just m-move."

Alfred obeyed, drawing out before pushing slowly back inside; watching in interest as Arthur sighed with erotica. He repeated the cycle, loving the adorable and downright sexy expression the British gentleman kept upon his face, getting gradually faster and faster. Arthur moved his hips in unison, impaling himself upon Alfred's length in the apex of the thrust. Within moments, Arthur was practically screaming with ecstasy; mewling Alfred's name again and again as the American took him almost to his peak with every swift thrust. The bed creaked along with each fervent strike.

Alfred began running more butterfly kisses down Arthur's neck; nipping and sucking on every exposed piece of pallid flesh that he could get hold of. Absently, Alfred stalked down Arthur's body – tasting his torso with an extended out tongue. His thrusts became even faster, practically ramming his lover into the mattress; hard and roughly, just the way that Arthur, surprisingly, liked it. The Englishman squirmed, enjoying the added sensation of Alfred's snaking tongue. Until he realised where he was seriously close to…

"A-Alfred!" Arthur called out with terror ceasing his voice. Too late, Alfred ran his tongue over the bane of Manchester, and the Englishman literally screamed aloud and flicked his head back; hot flushes filling his face absolutely scarlet. Alfred withdrew his head from licking Arthur's chest immediately, suddenly realising what he had just done. He expected Arthur to look terrified or annoyed… and was shocked to see that the Englishman was gasping with fulfilment.

"Oh _fuck_!" Arthur practically shouted with sexual joy. Alfred continued to question what had just happened. Didn't Arthur say he was scared of people touching his nipples? That was one damned strong reaction. Alfred realised within seconds; Arthur was not afraid of people touching him there because he found it scary… but because it made him burst into a fit of passionate delight. "Please, Alfred, do it again… please…"

Alfred continued to drive himself into Arthur's body; his hands grasping Arthur's manly hood and pumping it – trying to nurse him to the point of climax. Alfred's breathing was getting extremely irrational and excited sweats poured down his body – Arthur being in the same condition, more so with the added sensation of sheer pain. Alfred bent down and ran his tongue over Arthur's nipple again; teasing it with his teeth. Arthur shrieked, panting his name again and again. Alfred became obliged to do the same; both men driving each other to the utter peak within their first conquest as lovers. With a slight angle adjustment, Alfred begun to brush against Arthur's prostate; causing Arthur to jump into fits of expansive joy, pleading for Alfred to do it again. Alfred fulfilled him, taking the Englishman and himself to that absolute edge.

"Art… I, I love you!"

"I love you too Alfred!"

The coupling came simultaneously; riding out their orgasms until the very end. Alfred withdrew completely, leaving Arthur feeling cold and devoid without his continuous presence bucking his hips. They gasped and wheezed for breath, gathering each other within clinging arms. As soon as they could control themselves again, Arthur laid a furious kiss on Alfred's lips.

"That was the best fucking sex I have ever had." He purred, stroking the surface contours of Alfred's extortionately gorgeous chest; happily running his fingers down every muscular ridge.

"It's the only sex you remember having. And I agree – that was _awesome_" Alfred panted; the American rolled onto his side, wrapping his arms around Arthur's naked torso, dragging him into a hugging embrace.

"You're the hero, after all." Arthur sniggered, making fun of Alfred's self-confidence. The exhausted Brit hugged the American back. Alfred's heart leapt as he watched the Brit's smile increase. He had ever seen Arthur look so happy in his life. Alfred forced himself to look away, before the risk of flooding with affectionate tears would become a reality – though his attempt to restrain himself lasted barely a second. He couldn't stop thinking of his beloved, tucked so comfortably within his arms. Arthur was worth the wait and the search; every single inch of the Brit was worth him risking his life for, and every single inch was _his_ to love.

"And you're my damsel in distress."

"Oh shut the fuck up." Arthur hit him, _hard_, though the American was far too exasperated to fight back. He laughed instead, pulling Arthur even tighter to him.

"Art, I was thinking…" Alfred licked his lips, before running his fingertips through Arthur's hair; separating the strands that plugged together with sweat.

"Hallelujah." Arthur said with unintentional sarcasm. Alfred sent him a hurtful look.

"Oh thanks for that. Anyway: I was thinking that I might move over here. You know, I'll tell my boss that I was thinking of 'improving European relations' and all. And hey, most of the world meetings are held over here… it's a pain to be on the plane all the time – you know?"

"You can't do that Alfred - how are you supposed to keep up with your work, idiot?!" Arthur muttered, releasing his arms from around the American's chest and shifting himself till he sat upright. He squirmed a little uncomfortably; it hurt a lot to move his lower half, but damned was it worth it. He wiped his forehead, frowning at the large concentration of sweat that gathered there after their first time sleeping together.

"I dunno, e-mails and those super cool video conversation things that you see world leaders do in television programs when they're all trying to save the world and whatever! I'll make it work. Don't you worry." Alfred grinned, getting excited about the prospect already. He got himself up as well, and wandered back behind Art. He prodded the Englishman to make sure he had his attention. "Why, you want to spend more time with awesome me, don't you?"

"Yes. Nothing would make me happier."

"Then Art, I'm moving in. Hiya Roomie!" He backed the Englishman from behind and brought him into another chaste kiss, both party's minds filling with thoughts of their future together in one another's arms. Arthur broke the kiss with a groan.

"Damn it, I feel so dirty. I just had a shower as well… Damn you Alfred 'F for Fucking' Jones." Arthur complained, uncomfortable being all indecent and covered with sweat. His bed was also quite spoilt; sheets rustled by the patterns of their hungry love making and wet from after it was finished. Alfred grabbed his arms and shoved him back down onto the bed, shutting him up with his lips for a quick fleeting moment.

"Don't think. I'll clean up. You just relax and look as sexy as usual; have a shower in the morning." Alfred instructed his British boyfriend very stubbornly, pressing his finger into Arthur's lips whenever he seemed like he was going to make an objection. Alfred leaned in, nibbling a little on Arthur's ear lobe as he whispered sweet seducing nothings in his ear. "I'll make sure to wash every _inch_ of you tomorrow, so don't worry. Goodnight Art. I love you."

"I love you too, you stupid American prat."

The Englishman relaxed, and Alfred watched until the beautiful British man fell asleep – cradling him lovingly in his arms and running massaging fingers through his unruly blond hair. As soon as his eyes begun to flicker, Alfred rushed over to his clothes – taking out the mobile phone he had stuffed in his pocket. He found that particular contact of his and sent an SMS:

" ;) Mission Accomplished.

You were right about Manchester and York, I owe you five. And before you ask; yes. He did scream like the one hell of a sexy ass bitch that he is.

Thanks France.

Al."

* * *

**Hallelujah!**

**The smut chapter lasted a damned long time. But it's finally done. I'm very glad indeed!**

…**I've actually been coming up with awesome ideas for the sequel. It's going to be great. I might go straight into writing that… (the other fic I was thinking of needs more time so I can figure out what to do to fill in the gaps. Sorry if you were looking forward to that…).**

**So there you have it. This is the longest chapter by far… and I was actually going to make it even bigger… orz.**

**I had to cut a lot out of the conversation with France. Originally I wasn't going to stop it. I don't mind writing the whole conversation if you want to see it though ;D.**

**The sequel… anyone got any suggestions for a good name? Anything that goes well with Beyond the Pale as a title is great!**

**Ah, before I forget… I said on the last chapter that I'd let the 50****th**** reviewer have a one shot of their choice. And so annoyingly the 50****th**** poster ended up as someone without an account…! Ahh!**

**I'm going to roll it onto the 60****th**** reviewer 8D.**

**Thank you all for staying with me for so long… Beyond the Pale has been absolutely fantastic to write. I feel like crying, it's been that special to me xD.**

**And thank you for putting up with my pathetically long Author Notes… I guess I like the idea of talking to an audience, haha?**

**It's been almost a month since the first chapter was published. I'll try continue being this quick to update in the future.**

**Once again: Author Alert me if you fancy seeing the sequel, or that France x UK one shot, or that Angst UKUS one, or the France x UK (non-con)/US x UK (norm) fiction I've got brewing in my head ;D.**

**Thanks everyone!**

**(Holy shit, I nearly lost the whole thing then. My laptop battery timed out! I'm lucky that the Lappy continues to run the programs afterwards…!)**

**22 pages on MS Word… haha. One long chapter. Sorry it's late.**

**If you've been paying attention, you should have realised that their anniversary of partnership is the 7****th**** of July… the 7****th**** of the 7****th****... sounds really sweet, ne? Lucky Sevens… I think we can safely foresee a good future, don't you? ;D.**

**My birthday is the 9****th**** of July… I originally wanted this to happen on my birthday, but this is just how the storyline filled out I guess. It'll be a birthday treat to someone else; non?**

**On the subject of Lucky Seven's… the 7777****th**** word was "smile". Isn't that just perfect? That made me seriously happy. There are 8920 words in this chapter overall, if you wanted to know.**


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